


I, Spy.

by CopperCrane2



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, subtle-barely-there hints of a budding ot3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-09-18 10:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16993662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperCrane2/pseuds/CopperCrane2
Summary: Games might be a spy's bread and butter, but they're not always complicated and, sometimes, the only reason to play them is to learn random facts about reticent work colleagues.





	1. I'll Take That Bet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diadema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/gifts).



> Dear Diadema, 
> 
> First off, I am so sorry because of the following reasons:
> 
> 1\. It is only half complete.  
> 2\. Chapters 3 and 4 are not yet reviewed, so even though I have posted them to be read (because it would just be too unfair to have nothing but the very beginnings of a story to offer you by the deadline) they might be horrible disasters (unfortunately, I can't really improve them until I finish chapter 5 and solidify an idea I have about chapters 6 and 7). 
> 
> I really do feel terrible about the delay, and I'm hoping to have everything ready (completed and edited) to be read in full by New Year's Day. I hope that's ok!!!! I am so so so so very sorry indeed!
> 
> As for your prompts, I went with Prompt 3 (Alexander Waverly is a weakness of mine so I couldn't help myself) but I've tried my best to include a few bits from the other prompts (including a squint-to-spot-it element of bed sharing and a hefty dose of Gallya! - which will definitely feature more prominently in chapter 6 as it's entirely Gallya orientated).
> 
> Again, I am so very sorry! Being perpetually late for everything is an affliction of mine, I swear!
> 
> Have a wonderfully Merry Christmas, (unless you don't celebrate that sort of thing, and in that case, I wish you the very Happiest of Holidays). I hope you'll stop by on New Year's to have a read when it's all done and polished (but I completely understand if you don't!) 
> 
> Have a peaceful holiday break and thank you for your amazing prompts!

“It’s not… it’s not my first time in the Alps,” Gaby says quietly. 

He’s beyond exhausted, simultaneously sweating from the exertion of carrying her on his back and freezing from the stubborn winds which refuse to die down, but when he hears her voice - shivering, weak and quiet though it may be - his heart restarts. Hope. She’s still alive. It’s the adrenaline rush he needs to keep going. “Not your first time?” he asks, only to receive no answer. “Gaby,” he says, shaking the legs he’s gripping in his arms. “Gabs!” He doesn’t stop walking and he’s cautious to stay away from the snow. They’re lucky that they’re on the foothill of the mountain, but that doesn’t make the journey any easier. It’s less likely they’ll fall into a blanketed hole, but it also means they’re moving under a looming shadow: the winds are unrelenting, razor cold, and there are slick puddles of ice hidden amongst the rock.

“Hmm?” Her mouth is right next to his ear, her body weight pressing into his as he walks, bent forward, using gravity to keep her in place. 

“You were saying,” Napoleon puffs, “you were saying it’s not your first time in the Alps.”

“I was very young,” she explains softly. “Hated it.” The winds scream at her in protest. 

“Let’s hope-” He’s cut off as he almost slips completely, having lost his footing. He rights himself just in time but it jostles his partner and she hisses, her shoulder dripping fresh drops of blood onto his black boot and the brown stone underneath. “Let’s hope,” he continues when he feels it’s safe to do so, “that we never have to come back here again.”

The pain wakes her somewhat from her daze. “You alright, Solo?”

“Never better,” he says too loudly. “You?”

“Leave me here.”

“I’m sorry?”

She might be bleeding out from a gunshot wound and suffering the later stages of hypothermia, but she still has the energy to scoff. “You heard. We won’t make it… and I’m beginning to feel hot.” Almost as if for dramatic effect, she immediately follows up her statement with a shudder so violent he can feel it through their ski jackets. “Leave me. If you don’t, you won’t make it. Save yourself.”

Unfortunately he believes her, and that means there isn’t much time left.  _ Where are you, Peril? _ “And face the wrath of Waverly for losing his favourite agent?”

“I’m not his favourite…” she trails off. 

“Gaby.  _ Gaby! _ ” He shakes her legs until he can feel her head move against his neck. “And Illya?” The icy gale cuts through his ski mask like it isn’t even there, burning the thin skin of his face, splitting his lips each time he speaks. He’s hopeful that the cold might become less intense when he pulls away from the mountain’s shadow, to trudge through the snow in the beaming sun, but that has dangers of its own. He’ll have to cross over to make it to the next ridge, and then somehow climb over that before they can begin their descent into civilisation. He doesn’t know how on Earth he’s going to do it, but there’s no guarantee of rescue and he’s got to try. “What about Illya?”

“Illya?” she asks, confused. 

“Yes. How can you leave me-” his heavy breathing, caused by all his talking, draws the cold into his lungs, burning them- “to handle Peril alone?”

“Hmm.” Her grip loosens as she drifts from consciousness. 

He has to readjust her before she slips too far down his back and falls off, except he barely has the strength to move forward. “Wake up!” he yells, tossing her up as much as he can to get her into position. “Come on!” He’s losing hope again, and it’s getting him angry. Anger is good.  _ One foot, Solo, one foot in front of the other,  _ he thinks,  _ they’re looking for you, you know they are.  _ But it’s hard going, even more now that he has used what little energy he had to set her back into place. He moves, anyway. He doesn’t want to die and he doesn’t want to think about her not surviving, either. 

The winds are still blowing, hard and mocking; but he can hear her soft whimper in his ear. It’s a beautiful sound. “Ask me… something,” he says. 

“What?” It’s quiet, but it’s a response and it’ll do. 

“Ask… anything.”

“Any…”

He wants to grin at her tone but his face is wind sore. She might be dying but she’s definitely curious. “Yes, anything,” he confirms. 

“Your ring,” she says, without hesitation. 

“Janus,” he answers, knowing what she’s trying to ask. 

“Janice?”

“Yes.”

“The singer?”

He wants to laugh. “The Roman.”

“Roman?”

“Double headed God,” he explains as succinctly as he can. “Had it made, to remind myself.” He can’t feel his legs anymore, he realises, and he looks down to make sure they’re still moving. “Means opportunity… transition.”

“Hmm,” she says not having really heard. “Put me down, leave me.”

“Ask me another question.”

“Leave me. I’m dying,” she mumbles.

“No.” A gust of wind blasts them so hard he stumbles backwards. But he doesn’t let her go. He doesn’t let himself fall. “ _ No _ . Ask a question,” he demands when the gust tapers off. 

“Solo…”

“If you die, Gabriella Teller, I get your car.”

“Not mein car.” That wakes her.  _ Yes. Good.  _

“Yes. The concept car you’ve been-” he coughs, his trachea far too dry to support his uttering a full sentence all at once- “you’ve been building at UNCLE headquarters. Mine.”

“Nein...” she whispers. 

He doesn’t see it or feel it, but a rivulet of her blood slides down his sleeve, and what is not frozen instantly somehow sneaks under his glove. That he  _ does  _ feel, a tiny, cold kiss on his outer palm. “Then stay awake.”

“Ask you…” her speech is slurred, more so than she ever sounds when drunk. 

“Yes,” he says, latching desperately onto her attempt to keep talking. “If you survive, you can ask me a… a question. Every month.”

She sighs. “Ev’ry m’nth…”

“Every month. As personal as you like. Deal?” 

“Fav’rit c’lr...”

“What?”

“F’rbe… lieblingssssfarbe…” she asks, slipping fully into her native tongue. 

She’s aware enough to understand him, at least. She’s fighting to stay conscious.  _ Good. That’s good.  _ “Rosa,” he admits. 

Through the fog of sleep and ache she wonders if she mishears. “Ro...sa?”

“Ja,” he struggles to find the words. German was never his strongest language and now in his current state it’s almost impossible, “wie die… wie die… Morgengrauen.” 

He stills suddenly. 

God, he hopes he’s right, because he doesn’t think his legs will work again if he isn’t. He can’t lift his head too high to look because she’ll slip off his back if he does, so instead he listens intently. 

The wind, he hears the wind, that howling demon sent to curse him, but cutting it… cutting through…  _ there it is _ , that telltale chopping of the air. Yes, yes, he’s sure, now. It’s loud, very loud, and approaching him from behind. He can feel it, too, it’s close. 

And then it comes into view. 

He sinks to his knees, Gaby still semi-clutching his back, sweet relief draining him of all remaining energy as the helicopter lands cautiously on the rocky expanse a small distance away. The second it touches the ground a bright yellow, yeti-like creature bolts out towards them from the inside. From it’s sheer height alone he recognises it as Peril. “That’s a terrible colour, unless you’re  _ trying _ for ‘giant canary’,” he comments to no one in particular before passing out.   
  
  
  



	2. Two Truths and a Lie

She’s not fully conscious yet, still half way through sleep and waking. She’s aware enough to know she’s at a crossroads and she’s tempted, oh so tempted, to drift back into oblivion, but there’s a throbbing soreness in her shoulder that’s demanding to be acknowledged and a faint, familiar scent in the air: dense wood, spices, leather, pipe smoke. Underneath it all is the unmistakable stench of bleach.

Her eyes flutter open, stinging with sleep, but the mild discomfort is overtaken sharply by the pain at the top of her arm. She’s in a bed, that much she can tell, and the room is white - at least the ceiling is. She’s confused at first, as she tries to recall how she arrived there, but she’s far too tired to think beyond the sensory flashes which skim across her mind, so those will have to be enough, for now, to put the pieces together. She remembers clearly that there was an explosion, and a crash, and her fear as she saw the gun aimed at Napoleon.

 _Solo!_ she panics as the moment comes into focus.

He hadn’t seen the enemy behind, too busy with the one at his front, so she’d charged at the man with the gun.

Her worry for her partner’s safety subsides quickly, however, as she remembers the crisp feel of the ski jacket on his back, and his chatter in the freezing air, and then flying above the snow while Illya held her hand. _I must be in a hospital_ , she concludes, and she’s not alone.

She grimaces as she moves her head, and thus her wounded shoulder, in search of the source of the cologne. The soft crackle of folding paper catches her attention and she looks to her left, towards the window. There, sitting comfortably in a chair, reading the news from a broadsheet, is Waverly. As if he knows he is being watched he glances over and meets her gaze. “Ah,” he says softly, “Ms Teller, welcome back.” He’s clearly pleased to see she’s awake, folding the paper away quickly and picking up a little bell from the side table. “How are you feeling?” he asks as he rings it.

She tries to adjust herself under the blanket but she regrets the action immediately and aborts any further attempts. “Like I’ve been shot,” she grunts, her voice thick and raspy. She’s parched, she realises, and it hurts her throat to talk.  

“Yes, well,” he says, “that’s not entirely unexpected given that you were, in fact, shot.” A pretty nurse walks into the room, having been summoned by the bell, and diverts his attention. “Un verre d’eau pour la mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît, et…” he hesitates and turns back to Gaby. “Are you in a lot of pain?” he asks. The look she gives him is enough of an answer. “...et de la morphine pour sa douleur,” he finishes.

“Oui, très bien, monsieur,” the nurse says, “je vais chercher le docteur.”

“Merci.”

Waverly waits for the nurse to walk out of the room before he looks at Gaby again.

“Solo?” she asks.

“Resting at the hotel,” he reassures. “The doctors gave him a clean bill of health and discharged him this morning. He’s tired, but otherwise fine, thanks to you.”

“He would’ve-” she coughs, and then grits her teeth as the action jerks her arm. “He would’ve done the same for me,” she says once the throbbing subsides.

“Of course,” Waverly says, “of that I have no doubt.” The nurse walks in again carrying a tray with a glass of water and a syringe, followed by a balding man in a white coat. “Ah, docteur,” he says, standing up from the chair, and exchanges a few words in French with him.

As they talk the nurse helps Gaby to sit up and supports the glass while she sips. She can barely keep from sighing with relief as the liquid lubricates her throat. She’s greedy with thirst, but the sudden nausea in her stomach, the dizziness spinning her head and the pounding of her shoulder keep her from downing the glass in one go. She realises she’s hungry too, but she’s not sure she can eat quite yet and manage to keep it down. “Merci,” she says when she’s had enough.

The nurse smiles back kindly and places the glass on the side table. “ _I leave it ‘ere for you,_ ” she says in heavily accented English, “ _just ring ze bell eef you need anyting._ ”

“I’ll head out now, if you don’t mind,” Waverly announces, “but I’ll pop back this evening to visit.”

She raises her chin and opens her mouth, following him with her gaze as he makes to leave. She clearly wants to ask him something but is hesitating, knowing it’s not a good idea, and her mouth soon closes without a question uttered. Still, she must have been an easy read because Waverly stops at the door. “I’ll have a message relayed to Kuryakin, to let him know you’re awake and recovering well. He’s chasing down a lead to find the man responsible for all this.”

Her mission objective rushes to the forefront of her thoughts. “The chemical agent?”

“Completely destroyed in the blast, all trace of it gone. You and Solo did very well. Now,” he says, almost affectionately, “take your pain medication like a good girl and get some rest. I’ll be back in a few hours, we can chat over dinner.”

~*~

“My English accent sounds Swedish because: my English school teacher was a Swedish lady who’d married a German; I had a Swedish nanny until I was eight years old and she taught me English; my ballet instructor was a Swedish man whose German accent was so terrible we had to speak English to communicate with him, considering my other English teacher was also Swedish and my skills in the language weren’t very good, I copied the accent and it stuck.”

“Oh,” says Waverly midway through pressing a piece of potato onto his fork with his knife, “one of your statements is expressly linked to your other ones. Risky.” He offers the laden utensil to Gaby, who takes it carefully using her uninjured arm and puts it in her mouth.

“I thought I would up the ante a little,” she says, handing him back the fork. “What do you think? Which two are the truths and which one is the lie?”

“Well, I can’t imagine you not being very good at anything so I will immediately dismiss the third option,” he skewers the remainder of the salmon onto the fork, “but just to be sure,” he says, passing it over to her, “how close were you to this nanny?”

“I never knew my mother, she was the nearest thing I had to having one.” She concentrates with this last mouthful. The fish served for dinner was delightfully flaky in texture, unfortunately that’s made it far less delightfully easy to eat. She’s managed to avoid spilling any of it onto the bed but she’s deliberately being over-cautious now - the last thing she wants is to fall at the final hurdle, and especially not in front of Waverly. _My years of gruelling ballet training were not completely in vain_ , she thinks dryly. She raises the fork, as steadily as she is able, and brings it to her lips.

Waverly waits until she hands it back to him before he asks her anything else. “And she left because?”

“There was no more money.”

“Ah.” He nods once, understanding. “Water?”

“Yes, please. She was the one who thought to write to uncle Rudi,” she explains, “after my father was taken away. He sent her some money to help set me up with a decent foster family, which she did - the Schmidts - and then she left for Sweden.”

He hands her the glass. “How very good of late uncle Rudi.”

“Hmm,” she says as she sips.

“And what was this lady’s name?”

“Her name?”

“Yes.”

Gaby thinks about it. “It was a long time ago. I remember I always called her ‘Nanny Anna’, so I know that was her first name, at least.”

“In English?” he asks, almost accusingly, and watches carefully for her reaction.

She nods, like it’s unsurprisingly obvious. “She was the one teaching me the language.”

He hums in thought. “And this school teacher, what was his name?”

“ _Her_ name,” she corrects, “was Frau Möller.”

“And what on Earth possessed her to stay in Germany during the war?”

He notices Gaby’s hesitation for a fraction of a second as she glances briefly to her right. “I don’t know much,” she admits, “because I never asked, but I do know she’d married a German, with whom she’d had two daughters,  and that she’d been settled there for years. She was quite old, although now that I think about it, she was probably only in her late fifties.”

“The problem here, Gaby, is that the game is called ‘two truths and a lie’ and I’m loath to believe you were surrounded by so many Swedish people, even in Berlin. Are you sure there’s only one falsehood amongst your stories?”

“I’m not a cheat, Waverly, if that’s what you’re saying.”

He doesn’t hide his grin at her curtness. He’s seen it before, many times, in fact - it’s part of her charm - but rarely does she ever have the nerve to aim it at him. Whenever it happens, it’s usually for the same reason: the besmirching of either her honour or of one of the few people she cares for. Otherwise she’s quite good at playing callous.

She’s far more like her partners than she realises.

 _Spies,_ he muses, _and our hypocritical codes of ethics._ The aim of the very game they’re playing is to practice her ability to deceive and yet she smarts at the suggestion that she is being deceptive. But of course he can’t blame her, he understands the subtle difference. There are parameters in which they all operate. Rules which must be followed. Missions, he’s always felt, are like secret rooms. You go inside and you close the door behind you, and while you’re in there you do whatever you can, play however you like, in order to achieve the objective. You twist and manipulate, you lie and you cheat and you murder, you hurt. But no matter what you suffer, no matter how bloody-handed or beaten you’ve been, when you emerge from in there you must be clean, untarnished. You must be a shining example of society’s virtues, and you cannot, _must not,_ let what happened in that room follow you out. You are capable of great evil, but you’re only ever to use your devil’s tools for good. You must remain an honourable soldier, an obedient servant, a loyal soul. An impossible task, doomed to fail, but those are the rules, and they have little say in the matter. “This ballet instructor-”

“I thought you’d dismissed that one,” she interrupts, albeit without the hostility. He notes it’s gone as quickly as it had come.

“One can never be too careful.” He picks up the little bell and rings to have the empty dishes taken away.

“What about him, then?” she asks, prompting his inquisition.

“What on earth was he doing in Germany?”

“Teaching ballet.”

He scoffs at the unhelpfulness of her answer. “I suppose I should have expected that,” he says, and then frowns, “but to be _so_ terrible after- how long was he there?”

“He was working at the Berlin State School since it opened, and I assume he’s still there now.”

“So for his German to be so bad after all these years…”

“Have you heard Illya’s accent?” she offers as an analogy. “KGB’s best, fluent, and he’s spent time there, yet still he butchers it. It’s even worse than Solo’s.”

Waverly stops, seemingly confused. “I thought we were talking about Herr Möller’s inability to speak the _language_.”

Gaby gives him a look, like she’s almost disappointed that he would attempt such amateur tactics. “We were talking about my Swedish ballet instructor’s terrible _accent_. His German was fine, I believe, because he could understand everyone else, it was simply impossible to understand _him_.”

“I see.”

“ _Frau_ Möller,” she adds, “was my English teacher in school. My ballet instructor’s name was Mr Eklund.” She notices there’s a glint in his eye which hints at his having been teasing her with such silly tests. It’s an odd sense of humour, she thinks, and a little jarring. It’s at this point that she remembers who he is: a spy, a military man, a handler with a chequered past, darker than most. Every so often she gets hit with the reality of her situation - seemingly innocuous moments like these which remind her that she can never truly and completely relax around him, that she must always be on her toes - but Waverly has a way about him which lulls people into false senses of security. She wonders if that’s what’s made him such an effective leader.

“Were any of these Swedes related?” he asks, moving on.

Gaby does her best not to react. Interweaving her stories has made things more complicated, the rules say she can only perpetuate the _lie_ with more lies, the truths must represent reality, without embellishment. “Yes,” she says, but she can’t leave it there. She can’t look like she’s hiding anything, that he’s stumbled upon the crux to unravelling it all. Perhaps her plan wasn’t quite as clever as she’d thought it was. Except maybe she can use it to her advantage. “Mr Eklund was Nanny Anna’s brother.” She plays it off casually but she deliberately puts in (just a little) too much effort at making it sound that way. Enough to be noticed. Enough to look suspicious. She doesn’t believe she’s broken the rules, either, since in her mind Anna and Eklund are only related in the fiction of her having had a Swedish ballet teacher. The vagueness of his question has given her that wiggle room. She hopes it’s enough to beat him. But Waverly is Waverly, and he’s been at this far longer than she has.

“The ballet one is the lie,” he says conclusively. The game is over, he’s won.

Gaby can’t help that her face drops a little. “Damn.”

He’s gentle with the criticism. It’s not a dressing down, it’s a learning experience. It’s how he operates with all his agents, although he’s careful to throw the odd barb in now and then, to ensure they don’t feel _too_ good about themselves and to motivate them into doing better: a little bit of stick thrown in with the carrot never hurt anyone. “You oversold it,” he says, “it’s clear that you were attempting to push me into believing Anna and Eklund were related, just like you put too much effort into selling the nanny one as being a lie.”

“Was I so obvious?” She’s not upset, and she’s eager to learn.

“Only to me,” he offers as reconciliation, “and I’ve had a good amount of practice. You over complicated the Anna and Eklund thing, trying too hard to convince me that you were doing a bad job of skimming over an important fact. In attempting to make your false clumsiness seem real, it looked entirely more suspect.”

She nods lightly, understanding.

“The subtle actions you used to tell the Nanny Anna story - the pause, the glance - are also where you let yourself down. Just because you can spot the tells of a liar doesn’t mean you must always effect them yourself in order to come across as one.”

“But surely if I want them to know I’m not telling the truth I have to give _something_ away?”

“Know your audience, Gaby. One man’s poison are many a man’s bread. Tricks aren’t going to work on someone with experience. Only the stupid and naïve will fall for it, and in your line of work you won’t often come across the latter kind.”

Gaby huffs lightly, becoming frustrated with herself. “When will I ever need to convince someone I’m actually trying to manipulate them? It doesn’t make sense.”

Waverly doesn’t answer, preferring to let her figure it out on her own.

“When I need to plant a seed of doubt,” she says after thinking about it. “When I want to sow dissention.”

“Exactly.”

Gaby sips at the water she’s still holding with her good arm. “Protecting a secret is much easier than having to reveal one,” she admits.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“What else did I do wrong?”

“The ballet instructor story was too far fetched. It would have been a good distraction had it been a truth but it was just a little too unlikely to be believable as a fiction, and that is ultimately what worked against you.”

“I see.”

“For clarity’s sake, I take it Nanny Anna was one of Frau Möller’s two daughters?”

“She was.”

“So you knew her name was Anna _Möller_ ,” he says, “but you didn’t tell me that.”

Gaby grins. “You didn’t ask for her last name, and I never said I couldn’t remember.”

He folds his hands and accepts her argument. “Keep it up, Ms Teller, you’re getting very good at this.”

She tries to not preen at the praise. “Shall we have a final round, then?”

He glances at the clock on the dresser and sees it’s nearing ten thirty. She’s clearly tired but unwilling to give in for the night. He doesn’t blame her, finally conscious after her ordeal and having been confined to the bed the whole day. “Alright, last one,” he says. Truth be told, he always finds it somewhat difficult to resist indulging Gaby. He doesn’t mind it too much, either. He’s never wanted children of his own, nor has he ever regretted not having them, but the hands-on nature of his role in UNCLE has unexpectedly drawn out a little bit of a paternal instinct in him. He’s careful to keep it in check, but he has yet to see how it’s done any of them any harm. “What’s the theme?”

“Mrs Waverly.”

“ _Mrs_ Waverly?” he repeats, taken by surprise. “So we’re getting very personal, are we?”

“Well, you know all about my family.”

“Given my role, I’m supposed to,” he says. “Not to mention your family’s predilection for causing global pandemonium, which made them a special case.”

“But I’m sure she won’t mind too much if you share just a little bit of information about her?”

He considers it for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” _She’ll probably find it amusing,_ he thinks. “Alright then, two truths and a lie.” He pauses for a few seconds as he comes up with three plausible statements. “Mrs Waverly only has nine fingers; Mrs Waverly hates rice; Mrs Waverly was a pilot in World War Two.”

“I didn’t know women were allowed to fly in the war. They can’t even fly now.” She knows it can’t be that simple, so she’s suspicious, on her guard.

“They couldn’t. Unless they were members of the ATA.”

“The ATA? What’s that?”

“The Air Transport Auxiliary, a civilian division responsible for transporting the planes to the airbases. They could take anybody, train anyone, even those who didn’t meet the grade one standard, because they weren’t a military division.”

“Why did she sign up for that?”

His face softens just a little, as if he’s recalling a fond memory. “Because Mrs Waverly wanted to do more for the war effort than act as a glorified secretary. Her words, not mine.”

Gaby can clearly discern that the affection is real, but that reveals nothing as to the statement itself. She decides to move onto the other options for now. “How did she lose a finger?”

“She was a member of the Special Operations Executive of British Intelligence during the war. She was parachuted into France and spied for a full year before she was caught and sent to Ravensbrük, from which she escaped, though at the cost of her finger, which she lost to gangrene.”

Gaby’s eyebrows raise in astonishment. She hadn’t expected the second statement to be less likely than the first. She knows she won’t find any tells marring his features so she tries to throw in a curveball, to put them on more equal footing. “How did you meet her?”

It works, somewhat. “Is that really relevant to game?”

“All questions are.”

He hums in doubt but answers anyway. “Childhood friends.”

“Why does she hate rice?”

“We spent a long time in Hong Kong. Rice is served with almost every meal, including breakfast. After a decade of eating it daily she got rather sick of it.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a pipe and a box of matches. “Do you mind?”

“Be my guest.” That one is far too simple, and therefore impossible to accredit without having proof. She’s left with trying to poke holes in the other two statements, which won’t be an easy task. Discombobulation is her only weapon, and even that won’t be very effective. At the very least she can take advantage of this rare opportunity to gain insight into Alexander Waverly’s homelife. “What does she do now?”

“She’s an author, actually. She’s written under various pseudonyms, and she’s not half bad at it, if I do say so myself.”

“Will I have read anything she’s written?”

“You may well have,” he says, before politely directing her away from his personal affairs, “but might I suggest you ask about the gangrene instead?”

“It sounds gruesome.”

“It was.”

“Did she cut it off herself?”

“No,” he says, drawing in several consecutive puffs to get the tobacco burning, “the doctors couldn’t save it by the time she got back to Britain, so they removed it there.”

“How long was she a pilot for?”

“About a year. From forty four to forty five.”

“How did she escape Ravensbrük?”

“She was forced to work in a factory outside the camp. She and the other prisoners were marched to and from their work each day along a main road through a wooded area, and during a particularly busy night, dressed in her civilian clothes from the factory, she snuck away and obtained a lift with a passing Red Cross van driven by some Austrians. She claimed she was a foreign worker running from the approaching Russians and since they had no reason not to believe her they took her with them as far as they were able. After that she walked for several weeks, going from village to village as she begged for food and shelter, often making her way through the forest - and this was in the dead of winter, mind you - until she made it to the Americans.”

“You sound very proud of her.”

“I am.”

“She seems like a formidable lady.”

“She is.”

“Which finger?”

“Left pinkie.”

“Did she ever run into any trouble when she was flying?”

“Once. A fog rolled in unexpectedly and she ended up off course, heading towards a rather nasty dog fight just shy of the coast.”

“What did she do?”

He smiles. “As soon as she saw what was going on she turned the plane around and got it to the airbase safely.”

“Which airbase?”

He puffs on his pipe for a moment, trying to recall which RAF base it had been. “Lee on Solent, I believe.”

“Where’s that?”

“Close to the south eastern coastline of England,” he answers without hesitation.

“Were you together when she was imprisoned or did that come after?”

“Before.”

“And she never eats rice?”

“Won’t go near the stuff.”

“What does she eat instead?”

“Potatoes, pasta, bread. She’s a fan of bread.”

Gaby huffs lightly. She’s run out of questions and it’s clear he’s never going to give enough away for her to know decisively. She’s not incompetent - she’s fooled some of the best (and worst) people in the world into believe her fictions - but the constructs of the game limit what she can do. She has no other choice but to go with her gut. “I think it’s the first one,” she decides. “About her not having all ten of her fingers.”

He’s taken aback by the answer and pulls out his pipe from his mouth. “What gave it away?”

She’s quiet for a beat, debating whether or not she should be truthful. “Spies don’t tend to marry other spies, no matter how they feel about each other.”

Waverly doesn't respond immediately, either. He’s unreadable when he really wants to hide what he’s thinking. It’s unnerving. Illya’s feelings simmer under the surface, boiling over at a moment’s notice, and while neither she nor Napoleon will ever willingly reveal their _honest_ emotions, at least they show something. They’re all easy to reads, once you know how. But there’s a side to Waverly which is quite different from the one she’s used to seeing. Something lurking underneath all that dry, upper-class wit. Maybe it’s just _more_ acerbic, English drollery, or maybe it’s not. She doesn’t know, and she’s not very keen to find out. What she does expect is a response to her comment: a subtle warning of some kind about fraternisation. She’s afraid she’s disappointed him.

“Well, actually,” he says finally, getting up from the chair, “you’re right.” That glint is back in his eye, the one that lets her know he’s teasing her. Her shoulders relax, releasing the tension they were unknowingly holding and shooting pains from her bullet wound up into her head. “The first one is indeed the lie. She did not, in fact, lose a finger when she escaped from Ravensbrük,” he picks up his newspaper and taps her foot lightly, “it was a toe.”

It takes her a quick second to register what his answer implies. Before she can probe further, he’s heading out the door. “Goodnight, Ms Teller. Sweet dreams.”

Gaby sits there, dumbfounded, as he leaves. She spends the rest of her time awake wondering just how layered he’d intended his response to be.

* * *

Alexander stops - halfway through making himself a cup of tea - at the muted clacking of someone walking aggressively in high-heeled shoes across the carpeted floor. The sound, he notices, is heading towards his office. He sighs and adds an extra lump of sugar to his tea. It’s either that or the rum but it’s only nine thirty in the morning and even he has his limits when it comes to suitable drinking hours.

There’s a loud knock at the door.

He purposefully ignores his visitor until he settles himself into his favourite armchair and places the saucer on the little side table.

“Waverly?” she says, loud enough for him to hear her clearly.

He doesn’t suppose he can delay it any longer. “Come in, Ms Teller. Come in.” He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what has sparked this venture from her office to his. “What can I do for you?” he asks anyway, once she’s entered and closed the door behind her.

“Why haven't I received an assignment file?” She’s clearly annoyed. She’s doing her best not to sound it, but her crossed arms and bold stance aren’t helping her cause.

He picks up his cup and takes a sip. “Would you like to sit?” he offers.

“No, thank you.” Her arms remain crossed.

“Then at the very least make yourself a cup of tea.”

Her eyes widen in that way they always do when she’s angry and she leans forward slightly. “I don’t want _tea_.” What she _does_ want is obvious enough to be left unsaid.

He knows, of course, but he deliberately plays it obtuse. “I can have Pam attempt coffee if you’d prefer, but you know how awful she is a-”

“Alright, fine,” she says, giving in quickly. She makes her way over to the tea cart and haphazardly throws a cup together, but she deliberately clatters the silver spoon against the fine china as she stirs - her own little form of rebellion - and she all but tosses it onto the metallic tray when she’s done.

With a cup of hot liquid in her hands she has no choice but to sit, so she lowers herself onto the matching armchair, just on the other side of the little table.

“Now,” says Waverly brightly, “what seems to be the problem?” He sips at his tea.

Gaby huffs, clutching at her cup with both hands to keep them steady. “Solo and Kuryakin have a mission together.”

“They do,” he confirms and takes another sip.

“I don’t seem to be going with them,” she notes with trademark Gaby-forcefulness.

“That’s because you’re not.” He makes a little show of readjusting the grip of his cup and lifts it to his lips.

“Why not?”

He hasn’t put his cup down, instead he’s kept it hovering by his mouth so he can take another sip, and then another, before he answers. “You've had missions independent of each other before.” He watches her through a false screen of nonchalance, to see if she’s going to subconsciously pick up on his prompt.

She doesn’t. Or she does and she’s deliberately not mirroring him to make a point. From how she’s gripping the handle of the tea cup, ready to lift, but obstinately keeping it planted in its saucer, he suspects it’s the latter. “Those are small, or unique cases,” she says. “This mission is neither.” She moves the tea from her lap to the table. “You’ve sidelined me.”

He tuts, both pleased at her ability to resist his cues and disappointed by it. “There’s no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea.”

“Waverly-”

“Gaby,” he says, putting down his cup, “you threw yourself out of an exploding aircraft into a mini avalanche, after you’d been shot in the shoulder. You then proceeded to bleed out for over two hours as you were dragged through some of the most hostile terrain known to man.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that you’ve very much earned your three months.”

She sighs and picks up her tea again. “Desk duty feels like a punishment,” she says, finally sipping. “Napoleon’s out there fighting world crime and I’m stuck in London packing boxes and calling American office supply companies.”

“Now that’s unfair. You’re helping me to lay the founding stones of a new global agency, and as you are very much aware, Napoleon’s injuries weren’t nearly as serious as your own.”

“I literally just wrote a letter haggling over the price of building a bespoke ‘light-up’ world map.”

“How’s that going, by the way?”

“Don’t get me started.” She rolls her eyes for dramatic effect. “The world thinks the Communists are bureaucratic, but they’ve obviously never tried to ship goods into the US.”

“I take it then you haven’t had time to review the profiles I gave you earlier this week?”

“A few of them. But I don’t understand what you’re looking for from me. You’ll have formed your own opinions on them already.”

“True, but as you’re also our Acting Personnel Director I trust your insight.”

“I’m the what?”

He lets a little smile slip through at her surprise. “Surely you must have noticed, Ms Teller,” he teases. “Were you not on the interviewing panel for our new Legal Counsel?”

She isn’t going to give him that one. “Until he was hired, the only people actually _in_ the office were you, me and Pam.”

Waverly finishes his tea. “Look, it doesn’t matter as it’s only a temporary role, anyway - filled by anyone who’s not on active mission. Once we settle in New York we’ll obtain someone else permanently for the position.” The rule is purely an academic exercise because the timing of their move to New York will mean that Gaby is the only one who’ll ever have taken on the job, but she doesn’t have to know that that’s deliberate. Not yet. She’ll need a few years before he can operate more openly with her, though if he’s right about her potential, she’ll figure it out soon enough.

“Illya didn't have to do any of this when he was inactive.”

“At the time he didn’t need to. We weren’t a secret, independent branch of the UN attempting to permanently deprive other spy organisations of their most valuable agents and move them to an office in the United States. Personnel was handled by the British government.” Waverly takes advantage of the door she’s opened. “You might additionally remember that when Mr Kuryakin was stabbed in Accra he also was given three months,” he notes. “And he took them without complaint, despite his two partners running missions without him.”

As her temper dissipates, she knows she has very little ground to stand on. “That’s because Illya is very muscular. And lean. There’s almost no fat around his body to protect him.”

“I…” he frowns, “I’m afraid I don’t quite see the causal link.”

“It was a very serious stabbing. He needed the rest.”

“And the only reason _you’re_ alive,” he counters, “is because the blood flow from your nicked artery was constricted by the severe case of hypothermia you also happened to be suffering from during the entire ordeal. I would say that is, at the very least, equally serious.”

He has a point, but it doesn’t help much. “Fine,” she relents, “but I don’t like it.”

“Your disapproval is noted.”

“Two weeks,” she says, getting up to leave. “Two weeks until I’m back on duty and no more temporary job titles added to the ones I already have, please.”

“You’ll be on the next plane or bus or boat to wherever the world needs your help most once the fortnight is over,” he promises, “but I make no guarantees about the second request. I need all the help I can get.”

Her shoulders sag. It’s not like Waverly isn’t working flat out himself to lift this project off the ground. The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement has been sanctioned but separating themselves from the English is no easy task. The Soviets aren’t exactly keen to have their best agent permanently extricated from their grasp either, especially not when he’s going to be based in an enemy state. “Fair enough,” she says, “but inform me about them beforehand?”

“And have you storming in again with unfounded fears of me not utilising one of the best agents I have?”

“I’m one of the _only_ agents you have.”

He grins as he gets up and walks with her to the door. “True. There aren’t a lot of us in this venture Gaby, and until there are I need your support. Solo and Kuryakin’s, too.”

She nods, understanding what he’s asking. Until Waverly builds up this fledgling empire of his, there’s always risk of failure, even with a secret United Nations budget to grease the wheels. The idea of such an entity existing makes many states uncomfortable - it makes the _UN_ uncomfortable, to the point where they’re not even allowed to change the UNCLE acronym. They’ll need to prove themselves, and it’ll involve more than just occasionally saving the world… Gaby suspects that during the next few months they’re all going to have to attend enough business planning and personnel meetings to last several lifetimes. It already makes her tired. She can’t imagine how Waverly must feel. “I’ll have a list of the agent profiles I think have potential by this evening.”

He appreciates the gesture and smiles. “Thank you, Ms Teller.”

* * *

 

_One week later._

“Ms Teller?”

Gaby looks up to find Waverly standing in her office. “Yes?”

“Forget what I said last week.”

“Why?” she asks. “What’s happened?”

“It seems the boys have found themselves in some difficulty.” She’s closing the files on her desk and locking them away before he’s even finished speaking. “Kuryakin’s managed to make himself the subject of a kidnapping. I need you there to help Solo stage a rescue and, preferably, complete the mission. Pick up your documents, gear and cash from MI6 Procurement and get yourself to the airport. Your flight leaves in an hour.”

“Cover?” she asks as she unhangs her coat from the rack on the wall.

“Napoleon's fiancé, Gabriella Dupree, you’re going to meet him as a surprise over the weekend during his business trip.”

“The same one from Adelaide?”

“Yes. We don’t have time to make you a new cover and the passport shouldn’t raise any flags. You’ll also need to rent a car from the airport in Brussels in order to make your way to Antwerp as soon as you arrive.”

“Our contact?”

“Solo directly. Trust no one else. Our man in Belgium is the one that gave the game away.” He hands her a folder. “Here’s a copy of the mission brief. Read and destroy upon arrival in Belgium.”

“Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it.”


	3. A Trio Down To Two

 

“How is he?”

“Well, he’s definitely shifted in his sleep,” Napoleon leans over Illya, listening, “and he’s breathing steadily.”

Despite the implication, Gaby can’t resist asking, just in case. “So he’ll be alright?”

“It seems so.”

She fusses with the duvet, attempting to untangle it from his long limbs, but it’s a struggle. “Maybe we should take him to a doctor.”

Napoleon helps her by trying to lift a foot but to his surprise he meets resistance. Illya’s body tenses, pulling away from his and Gaby’s touch and curling himself further into the blanket. “He’s responsive, there’s no fever and his breathing is fine,” he says, surrendering to Illya’s clear, though unconscious, desire to be left alone. “He just needs rest. So do we.”

Almost as if to confirm his statement, Kuryakin rolls over onto his back, releasing the stiffness in his muscles and murmuring soft incoherences as he moves. Gaby takes the opportunity to extricate the duvet. “I don’t think we should leave him alone.” She shakes it out once and lays it gently on top of him as best she can.

“We just did, for two hours.”

“You know what I mean.” She can barely resist touching him. She doesn’t want to disturb him further when he is already so restless but her worry and selfish desire to reassure herself that he will be alright are ever present. She tries to dismiss her feelings as idiocy, Illya Kuryakin has suffered far worse and come out more than fine, but there’s only so much power logic has. Especially when she’s so exhausted herself.

“They used sodium thiopental. It’s an anesthetic and they only gave him a light dose in order to get him to talk. It’ll have half left his system by now; he’ll be right as rain by morning.”

“We left him here by himself. We have no idea what else they gave him and no one was watching him to make sure he was alright.”

 _Ah_. Guilt. She’s not wrong to feel it. He knows he would have felt it too if they had come back to find Illya in any state other than healthy. But he also knows that she doesn’t regret their decision. There was far too much at stake and probability dictated Kuryakin was not going to die from a dose of truth serum only large enough for someone of average height and weight, let alone someone of Illya’s size. They had no access to a private doctor anyway, and taking him to a hospital was an impossibility at the time, considering they had an entire criminal organisation looking for them. Their temporary abandonment was the only option. Illya would have done the same, without hesitation.

He sighs, knowing he’s going to regret what he’s about to say. “If you like, we can watch him in shifts.” It’s a useless endeavour, other than to help her alleviate her own worry, but he suggests it anyway.

“Yes,” she nods, “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Alright then, we have five and a half hours until we need to leave,” he says, checking his watch. “I’ll go pack his things from his room upstairs and bring it in here, but you take first shift and I get the sofa bed.”

Her attention switches, her gaze hardening instantly at the proposition. “Why do _I_ have to share with him?”

“Who said anything about you sharing?”

“Well if you take the sofa bed, what am I supposed to use?”

Napoleon narrows his eyes. “But you don’t need a bed at all, you’re going to be awake. That’s the whole point of it being your shift.”

“So what, I’m supposed to just stand around the entire time?”

“If you don’t want to share with Illya there’s a perfectly comfortable chair in the corner.” They both look at the ancient, ratty Morris chair, illuminated (barely) by the dull glow of the room’s only lamp. “Alright, fine,” he admits, “there’s a chair _of debatable comfort_ in the corner.”

“You could use his room and I could take the sofa bed,” she suggests, thinking quickly.

Napoleon is even quicker to dismiss it. “It’s not exactly a good idea to be running up and down the stairs and going in and out of rooms throughout the night. The landlady’s cantankerous as it is and no one knows we’re here, Gabs. Let’s keep it that way.”

She takes another look at Illya. Spread-eagled on his back, all that’s available for her is a little pocket of space under his arm. She’ll have to lay half on top of him to fit herself in comfortably or she’ll have to sit up and stare at him like some creepy voyeur. The latter, while embarrassing if caught, involves minimal touching. It is far and above the safer option. The former, however, allows her to play a dangerous game of make-believe that’s sure to do her heart more damage than good in the long run. “Fine,” she huffs and crawls carefully into bed. “If he puts me into a strangle-hold and tries to murder me in a drug-induced stupor, I’m blaming you.” She slides her fingers across his silk shirt and pretends her hand doesn’t tingle at the feeling of his warm, solid chest underneath.

~*~

_One hour later_

“God, shut him up!” Never having needed to share sleeping quarters with the Red Peril before, Napoleon wonders how on earth Gaby’s managed it. “Does he snore like this all the time?”

“No,” she says, “it must be an effect of the drug.”

“Try rolling him on his side, see if that helps.”

It’s too dark to see, but from her grunts of exertion and the lack of interruption in Illya’s snoring it’s not hard to guess that she’s not going to manage it on her own. “Any luck?” he tries anyway.

“He’s quite heavy,” she snaps, a little on edge - although whether it’s just sleep-deprived irritation or worry he’s not sure. Knowing Gaby, it’s probably a little bit of both.

Napoleon resists the urge to sigh. “Hold on.” He moves to help and grabs Illya’s arm. “You push from the back and I’ll pull from the-” he’s cut off suddenly as he’s grappled into a hug, chest to chest. “Peril! _Let go!_ ”

“ _Pirog..._ ” he mumbles as he rolls forward, pinning Solo between his bodyweight and the mattress.

“Pirog?” Gaby repeats. “Isn’t that some sort of pie?” She looks at Illya with concern. “Do you think he’s hungry?”

“ _Who cares?_ ” Peril’s comfort is the least of his concerns. “ _Get. him. off. me._ ” The bed is far too soft to use effectively as a surface to push against, and being on his back means he has limited use of his arms. “ _Now_!”

“I’m trying!” 

“ _Try harder!_ ” 

“I am! Just wait a second!” To be honest, she’s almost relieved that the entire experience of sleeping with Illya has been so dismal. It’ll probably make temptation easier to resist next time the opportunity arises. She does her best to rescue Napoleon from Illya’s grip, but as she reaches over from behind his large back to try and lift his arm, she spies the empty sofa bed… and it looks very inviting indeed. If she stays where she is she’s not going to sleep a wink. She’ll need the rest since she’ll be the one driving tomorrow (having lost to Solo in a game of paper, scissors, stone earlier in the evening) - and that’s enough of a justification for her. With only a very mild case of regret, she pulls back and sits up. “It’s your turn to watch him, anyway,” she says.

He can’t see her, but he can feel her weight shifting and he has a strong suspicion as to what she’s planning. “Gaby…”

“There’s room for you now that he’s on his side.” Her weight is completely gone and he can hear her traitorous little feet as they shuffle along the carpeted floor. He also does not miss the snort she makes as she escapes - something he would find cute if he wasn’t so furious.

“You think this is _funny_?”

“Not at all,” she says, climbing into the covers. “Good night, Solo.”

“N- Gaby, _Gaby_ _get back here this inst_ -” he tries to pull away but Illya’s grip tightens on his neck and his leg traps him in some odd sort of judo grip. “Will you _stop_ that?!”

“ _Borscht_.”

“I hate you both.”

* * *

 

She wakes to find Napoleon in bed with her. “Morning,” he says in a clipped tone. He’s sitting up, a pen in his hand and a half-written mission report in his lap. “Sleep well?” he asks with clear sarcasm.

She smiles at him and stretches. She was well rested before the mission, but having been out of action for a few months she’s not quite readjusted fully to the frantic exhaustion of it all. The few hours of sleep she’s just had have done wonders. “Yes, thank you,” she says as she sits up. “I notice you managed to escape.”

“Of course I did.” He goes back to writing his report, not even deigning to glance in her direction.

She grins at his antics and plays to his weakness. “I expected no less from one of the greatest cat burglars in history.”

That catches his attention. He looks at her, knowing full well what she is doing, and a mini-round of chicken ensues to see who cracks first: her, sleepy and still a little high on their success, or his emotionless stare. Of course it’s him, it’s his turn to make a move in this little game of theirs, anyway. His lips quirk along with a half amused roll of his eyes, and he nudges her side. “Flattery will only get you partial forgiveness for your little stunt.”

“And what do I have to do to obtain the rest?”

She thinks he’ll want her to venture out and buy them breakfast, or fill out the rest of his paperwork for the mission, or pick up his dry cleaning for a week. More than likely he’ll ask too much, as he always does when she needs a favour, and she’ll negotiate him down to something more reasonable. Today, however, his request is a little different. He winces and puts his hand to his nape. “If you don’t mind, I have a kink in my neck, courtesy of our Russian cuddler over here, and it’s given me a terrible headache.”

“Ah,” that’s an easy one to accomplish. “Turn, then,” she orders, and sits up on her shins. “How was he?” she asks as she begins to knead the trapezius muscle between his neck and shoulder.

He sighs with contented relief as her massage makes quick work of loosening the tension build up. “He’s fine. He could probably sleep for another hour or so, but breakfast is coming up in a few minutes and we need to get ready. To make it to the airport in Brussels on time we have to leave here by seven thirty at the latest, and it’s already quarter to.” He can feel the headache dissipating rapidly. “Good grief, you’re _very_ good at this.”

“One of the little known benefits of being a ballerina. Being in constant physical pain and having strong hands means you learn to give the best massages.”

“Oh?” he inquires suggestively.

“Don’t be filthy, Solo.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He can’t help himself, though. “But as we’re on the subject, did you and the other ballerinas ever… _massage_ each other?”

She switches from hands to elbows and digs them in into his back. “I _said_ don’t be filthy.”

“ _Ow_.” He pulls away reflexively, and then uses the extra space between them to twist around. “What’s dirty about a massage between friends first thing in the morning?”

At his deadpan expression she pushes him away. “Urgh, _schwachsinnige._ ”

Having obtained the desired reaction he breaks into a devilish little grin. That, along with the slight unruliness of his hair makes him a stunning sight to behold in the burgeoning sunlight, but she’ll never tell him. She suspects he already knows, anyway. “Let’s wake Illya,” she says, as she begins to make her way off the bed, “so he can orientate himself and hide before breakfast is delivered.” Although where exactly they’ll stash him in their tiny cupboard of a room is an issue she has yet to solve.

Napoleon reaches out, halting her. “Just a minute longer?” he asks, his smile softening. She glances from his face down to his fine hands, clutching at her fingers, and then back up, her own features twisting into a look of skepticism. His charm always has its limits with her. “A little on the left side, please?” he begs, letting go.

She tuts with amusement. “You’re pushing it,” she says, but gives into his request. “One more minute, and then we move. And next time you need a kink rubbed out, ask the sleeping giant.” Napoleon is too busy moaning in relief to respond to the accidental innuendo.

“Am I interrupting something?” a rough voice asks from the other bed.

The comment has them both look up instantly. “Illya,” Gaby says happily just as Napoleon answers with a definitive ‘Yes’.

Solo’s shoulders slump in disappointment as she pulls away. “It seems our partner has magical, pain relieving hands,” he says, clearly put out as she clambers off the bed and walks over to the waking Peril, “and you’ve just taken them away from me.” He watches in fascination as Gaby suddenly notices something about Illya and stills in her tracks. She then does a complete turnabout, opting instead to open her suitcase on the other side of the little room. He looks over at Peril, to see what might have caused her reaction, but there’s nothing obvious (other than a surprisingly flattering case of bed head) and there's certainly nothing _embarrassing_ \- if there is, it’s well hidden by the duvet.

“Urgh,” Illya grunts. He mutters a few words of incoherent Russian as he pushes himself up with his elbow. “Do I get treatment from magic hands, too?”

“No,” Gaby barks as she rifles through her valise for an outfit and some of her toiletries. She’s keen to discourage the notion that she’s somehow become the team masseuse, and she’s _especially_ keen not to touch _him_. If Solo looks good in the mornings, a rough Illya, she’s come to realise, is practically angelic. She’s never noticed before since he’s almost always been the first to wake during their shared missions.

Either he doesn’t take her harshness to heart or he’s too tired to have heard it. “But I am definitely in more pain than him,” he says, half teasing and half trying his luck.

She bites her lip and pulls out a green plaid dress. Illya Kuryakin, she’s learned from experience, is an unequivocal morning person. It doesn’t matter how tired or terrible he feels, he enjoys the dawn: the warming of the world from the night chill, the light peeking through the darkness; and it makes him _unbearably_ cheery (at least it does until she banishes her morning blues with strong coffee). It’s not unusual for her to be pulled into consciousness by his humming pleasantly in the shower after an early run, or by the scent of his cologne as he dresses, hair cream in one hand, a little brush in the other and a smile of greeting on his lips. Once, she woke to find him shaving, with nothing to cover him but steam and a white towel slung dangerously low on his hips. He’d caught her staring through the mirror and raised an eyebrow, amused, daring and smug. She gave up at that point and threw the blanket back over her head, cursing him in German from underneath.

Newly awakened, however, she notices that his voice is thicker, deeper, it reverberates within her chest. His blond hair, usually so perfectly combed into place, is adorably askew and it makes her fingers itch with the need to slide them through, to right the mess. He’s discomposed, not quite at one with the world, and yet he’s doing terrible, _terrible_ things to her. “If you need a massage so badly ask Napoleon to do it for you.”

“Disturbing image,” he says, but he takes the comment in good humour, that morning cheeriness already blossoming forth.

“You don’t deserve one anyway,” Napoleon counters, “you’re the one who caused all this havoc in the first place.”

“Is not my fault I get caught,” he says, scrubbing his face with his massive hand, “intel was old and they take me from beh-” he stops and tries again, “they took- no, taking?” he huffs, too tired to bother figuring out which word is correct for the past tense. “Doesn’t matter. It was a surprise and there were too many of them.”

“The intel wasn’t old.” Napoleon gets up and heads to the sink, filling a nearby blue bowl with cool water. “It was false. We were duped,” he says, handing it to Kuryakin.

“Thank you.” Illya uses it to splash his face. “Huybrechts?”

Solo nods, confirming it was their contact who betrayed them. “Once they found out we were coming they took his brother for leverage.”

“And the mission?”

“We completed it last night, Solo and me. We recovered the stolen intel and as a bonus we took out a head of a major penose group.” Gaby deliberately does not mention their rescue of him. She doesn’t want to rub it in. “Not bad for a night’s work, if I say so myself. Huybrechts escaped, but his brother wasn’t so lucky, which is why we’re being cautious.”

“He blames us?”

Napoleon turns on the tap and uses the sink directly to rinse his face and wet his hair. “He wasn’t exactly friendly when we parted ways, but he doesn’t know where we’re staying.”

“I’m going to use the shower before the other guests get there first and steal all the hot water,” Gaby says. “When breakfast comes, save me a cup of coffee.”

“You’re not hungry?” Napoleon asks as he combs his parting.

“It’s too early,” Illya answers for her, remembering the number of times he’s asked her the exact same question, “but not for me. There is food?” As she’s leaving the room he spies her hidden smile at his comment and it lifts his whole mood.

“Any minute now,” Solo says. As if on cue the men catch Gaby’s voice, elevated to be deliberately heard through the wall while she converses with someone outside the room. “That’ll be the landlady with breakfast. Peril.” He looks over at Illya and tilts his head, indicating that he should hide on the hinged side of the door, “and take your suitcase. She’s a nosy woman.”

“Da, da,” he grumbles and does as he’s told, hulking himself up with a groan and then taking the opportunity to stretch his arms, neck and back, his joints clicking and popping loudly as he walks over to his hiding spot in the corner. Once he gets into place he frowns. “When did I put on pyjamas?” he whispers.

“Before we left,” Napoleon answers in a low voice, unbuttoning almost all of his nightshirt. “You refused to go to sleep until you’d changed, except you were high on truth serum and couldn’t do it yourself.”

“So who-” Illya’s cut off by Napoleon opening the door.

“Let me get that for you, Mrs Meijer.” Solo takes the tray from her quickly, and uses it to subtly block her from entering any further.

“I saw your fiancée,” she says. Her eyes are fixated on the dusting of dark hair on his defined chest.

“Oh good.”

“She says she is going to the bathroom.” Her gaze hasn’t moved. Her cheeks are ruddying.

“Yes, she told me that, too.” He waits. “Is that all Mrs Meijer?”

Her eyes spring up, realising how obvious she’s been, and she scoffs in clear disapproval. “This is a lot of food. You’re lucky I have so many international guests and can cater to your tastes.”

“That’s why we chose to stay here,” Napoleon says, “and we’re very pleased with the service.”

She narrows her glare in suspicion. “Will you be able to eat it all?”

“Yes, we’re quite hungry.”

“Your wife is very small.”

“She has a large appetite, and she’s not my wife, yet.”

She scrutinises him for a moment. “The breakfast will be cold by the time she gets back,” she says. “You wanted it at six fifty and I have delivered it precisely on time. If you required it earlier you should have specified so.”

“This is perfect, Mrs Meijer, thank you.”

“Hmm,” she says and does her best to sneak a glance into the room. “Did any of the other residents perturb you last night?”

He frowns, suspicious. “What do you mean? Was there any trouble?”

She is obviously looking for an ear to complain to but thinks better of it, not wanting to alarm a guest of hers any further. “No, nothing like that. It’s just foreigners these days are becoming odder and odder with their requests, asking them at all sorts of unreasonable times, too.” She waves it away quickly and takes another, not-so-subtle peek at his chest. “Very well, good day Mr Briar,” she says, mumbling disapprovingly in Dutch as she leaves. Napoleon shuts the door quickly with a light shake of his head.

Illya appears at his side in a second. “I smell sausages,” he says with his eyes glued to the tray like a starving hound. “And bacon.”

“You’re salivating,” Solo notes, placing the food down on the table next to the ratty settee.

“I am hungrier than I realised.”

“I’ll take the yogurt and muesli, then. Save the coffee for Gaby, and you’re welcome to the rest.”

“Thank you.”

Napoleon only just manages to snag the bowl without having his hand bitten off as Illya all but attacks the food on the plates. Out of sympathy he gives his friend a few minutes of uninterrupted eating before he speaks again. “What do you suppose she meant by that?”

“Hmm?” Illya tilts his head - to look like he’s listening - but his eyes are on the scrambled eggs he’s cramming onto his toast.

“The landlady. Did something happen while Gaby and I were gone?”

“No idea.” He adds a slice of hard, yellow cheese on top and shoves it in his mouth. Once he’s swallowed it down he bites into a sausage. “I remember nothing after I passed out in the car,” he says as he goes for the orange juice. “It’s all blank until this morning. Is this French toast?” In all honesty, Illya doesn’t care if it’s just soggy bread and dives in without waiting for an answer. Out of the corner of his eye he notices that Napoleon is pacing behind him, absently eating his bowl of yogurt muesli as he thinks. His hunger is only just being slated, but Illya trusts his partner enough to take it seriously when he’s worried. “You think there’s a suspicious guest in the building?”

“I don’t know, I just thought it was an odd thing to bring up.”

Illya bites into the sausage again. “Like she said, this guest house is used to international clients, it’s possible we are not the only spies staying here.”

“Which puts us in a vulnerable position. We kicked up a hornet’s nest last night.”

He swallows quickly and gets up from the chair. “I’m going to check on Gaby.”

“No,” Napoleon says. “I’ll go. Finish eating. The sooner we get out the better but as far as I can tell our cover’s still in tact here.” He leaves quickly but comes back only a minute later. “Everything seems to be fine. She’s almost done. I’ll go in next after her but if you want, there’s a bathroom upstairs as well. Keep an eye out, though, for anything strange. I don’t trust the landlady.”

Illya nods. “Where are the keys to the car? I’ll get ready, check out and meet you both outside.”

Solo pulls out the keys from the jacket pocket on the rack and tosses them over. “See you in twenty.”

Illya picks up his suitcase and quietly sneaks out the room.

* * *

 

Illya’s dozing lightly against the window when he senses the presence of approaching people. He opens his eyes to find Gaby almost at the door. “Hop in the back,” she says when she’s close enough to be heard through the glass. “Solo’s the fiancé, and you still look like you could use some sleep.”

Illya’s about to protest but he thinks better of it. The hot shower did little to help shake the lingering drowsiness; an hour-long nap in the back seat before the uncomfortable flight home and a full day at the office does sound appealing. “Cowboy’s driving?” he asks as he gets out to switch places.

“Gaby is.” Napoleon slides into the front passenger seat. “I could use some extra sleep, too. Somebody kept me up _all_ night.”

Gaby glares at him. A question like that is certain to peak Illya’s curiosity, which means they’ll have to tell him why. Napoleon responds with a knowing grin.

Kuryakin takes the bait like a fish on a hook. “What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing,” Gaby tries as she starts the engine and they pull away.

“You were snoring.”

The emphatic protestations begin immediately.

~*~

“Guys,” Gaby calls out. “Guys, wake up.” Since Solo’s within arm’s reach she taps him repeatedly on the knee until he stirs.

“I’m up, I’m up.” Illya lifts his head from the corner between the window and seat. “What’s going on?”

“We’re being followed,” Napoleon says, having glanced at the mirrors while blinking the sleep away.

Illya’s view is restricted by where he’s sitting. “Huybrechts?” he asks.

“Probably,” Gaby answers. “It’s one man in a car. He’s been keeping his distance, enough that I can’t say for certain who it is. He’s clearly a professional but he’s on his own - he keeps reappearing and I haven’t noticed anyone else.”

“Can you lose him?” Illya asks.

“Not without revealing that I know we’re being followed,” she says, assessing the road. “It’s too early in the morning, there’s not enough traffic.”

“Worth the risk,” Napoleon says. “Let’s do it.”

“Hold on.” Gaby shifts gears and floors the gas. “This car isn't small or speedy. We’re going to be in for a bumpy ride.” The Wartburg 311 roars at her in agreement as it takes off while Illya plants his feet onto the floor, gripping the back of Solo’s chair to keep himself steady.

As they build pace, their pursuer dispenses with all pretence and speeds up to catch them. Gaby switches between lanes, deliberately cutting off other drivers and causing whatever havoc she can amongst her fellow road goers.

“I don’t think it’s him,” Napoleon says, “this guy’s a blond.”

“Grab onto something,” Gaby warns before taking a hard left into a narrow road. She checks her mirror and sees a car she’s just cut across screeching to a halt and then get hit from behind, the mild crash blocking the turning.

“He must have been penose,” Solo says, looking back at the damage they’ve caused. “That’s definitely not Huybrechts.” They turn out of the narrow street onto a wide road.

“No,” Illya confirms and then spots another car pulled over and waiting at the opposite end, “but _that’s_ Huybrechts.” With a rising anger he realises something else, too. “And he’s with the rest of the Hoogendoorn gang. That’s one of my captors.”

Gaby transitions from third to fourth and moves quickly onto fifth gear. “Why are they working together?” She’s speeding out of the city, dodging car after car amidst panicked honking. “Did we fall for some kind of double trick?”

“They killed the brother in front of him. We saw it ourselves,” Napoleon says. “There’d be no reason to murder an innocent man.”

Gaby swerves to the right. “Unless he wasn’t so innocent.”

Napoleon’s answer is drowned out as a hail of bullets burst out from behind.

Illya rolls down the window and takes a few shots before ducking inside as another round from the semi-automatic attacks the back of their car. “Their motive for working together doesn’t matter right now. We can’t let them retrieve the schematics.”

“How did they even find us?”

“It was probably the old woman.”

“Meijer?”

“She behaved strangely when I checked out. As if she did not like me.”

“That’s hardly surprising given your lack of charm, finesse and-” Solo’s almost tossed out of the window completely when they hit a curb. “That goes double for you,” he says, glaring at Gaby, knowing she did it on purpose.

“Shoot now, quips later.”

“Keep the car straight and steady!” Illya yanks open his door and leans out.

“Hurry up!” Gaby warns. “There’s a left turn in about ten seconds!” He doesn’t reply but the muted gunshot and the ensuing screeching of tires tells her he’s done it. “Get in!” The door slams shut just as she swings the car into another broad street.

“Nicely done,” Napoleon compliments. “My turn.” He produces a ridged, oval-shaped metal object from his jacket.

“Where did you get _that_?” Illya demands.

Solo pulls the ring, pitching the grenade out the window and into the path of Huybrechts’ car. “Took it off a goon last night.” He waits for the explosion to die down before continuing. “I figured it might come in useful.”

“Nicely done,” Illya says, impressed.

“It lacks sophistication,” Napoleon admits, “but it does the job.”

“Most of Antwerp won’t need an alarm clock to wake up this morning. We’ll have to change car soon, and do so quickly or we’ll miss the flight home.”

“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” Gaby says. “Our impromptu car chase shaved off a good few minutes of our travel time. We’re going to have to pull over into a village along the way, but it won’t be too difficult to hot wire something suitable.”

Illya lies back onto his seat and places his cap over his eyes. “You’re a bad influence on her, Cowboy,” he says, but he doesn’t seem concerned about it.

“I don’t see you disagreeing with the plan,” Gaby counters.

She spies his grin via the rear view mirror. “He’s bad influence on me, too.”


	4. Truth Serum

“Ah, Mr Kuryakin,” Alexander says and beckons at the man hovering outside his semi-open door. “Come in, sit down. Would you like a drink? Tea? Something a little stronger?”

Illya closes the door behind him. “Thank you, no,” he says, all business. Truth be told, he’s been nervous since his return. Waverly’s acted a little oddly over the past few days and it’s begun to eat at him. This invitation to his office has been both a welcome relief and another source of worry - it hasn’t helped that it’s been set up for just after office hours, so the few people who actually work there have already left. “If this is about my getting caught, I-”

“No, no,” Alexander interrupts with a wave of his hand. “Sit, Kuryakin.” He doesn’t speak again until Illya does as asked. He knows it’s cruel, but he’s ensuring his face is difficult to read. No point in giving the game away too soon. “You sent us a report,” he reveals.

Illya’s clearly confused.

“About Antwerp. You mailed us a report,” he explains.

“I… I did what?”

“Yes. I have to admit I was a little surprised, too, at your having had the time to do so. The mission schedule was tight and you were supposedly out of it for the second half.”

Illya doesn’t like his use of the word ‘supposedly’. “I have no memory of writing this report,” he states, “or why I would even do so before the mission was completed. Are you sure it was from me?”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about it,” Alexander says, cracking his mask ever so little to let the amusement show through. “No one else could have produced such a document.”

Illya is liking this even less.

“Solo did indicate that you’d been exposed to a sort of truth serum,” Waverly offers.

“Yes, they tortured me for information and when that did not work they administered sodium thiopental,” Illya frowns, “that was the last thing I remember. But I have been reassured by my partners that even in my incapacitated state I revealed nothing important.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself on that front, that’s not under argument,” he says. “You were very brave, the pinnacle of professionalism, as usual. But according to both Teller’s and Solo’s reports once they recovered you from your captors and took you back to the B and B, they monitored you during the night, with the exception of a few hours where they unavoidably had to leave to complete the mission. Apparently you slept the entire time they were with you.”

“Then I assume I must have woken and written this report when they were away.”

“Yes, I assume so as well.”

“I don’t understand the problem. I was checked by medical upon my return, I am fine. Why am I here?”

Waverly opens his mouth, but hesitates just a moment, as if debating how best to approach the situation. “You really have no memory of writing it?” he asks eventually.

“No.”

“Absolutely none at all?”

Illya doesn’t know how much longer he can take this. “Why?” he demands, “What is wrong with it?”

“Perhaps… perhaps it’s better that I show you.” Waverly picks up a thin paper file on his desk, opens it with unnecessary care and clears his throat dramatically. “‘Report to UNCLE Waverly,’” he pauses to glimpse at Illya’s reaction but dives back in before he’s noticed. “‘This is the report of Illya Kuryakin, amazing Russian agent. I have UNCLE mission with one of my partners. I have two partners and Solo is one of my partners. Solo is beautiful. If I am honest he is too beautiful. He has beautiful face but his mouth is stupid. He has stupid American mouth. He is bad spy. Worst spy. His fashion sense is boring also he is show off and also he is bad spy. Actually he is quite good spy but he is cowboy spy’… I’m not exactly sure what that last part means, Kuryakin, but I think I get the jist of it.”

Illya is nodding seriously, taking in every word. “Excuse me,” he says, getting up, “I have to find a lighter.”

“A lighter? I didn’t think you smoked.”

“I don’t. I need it to set the document, or myself, on fire. At this point, either option is suitable.”

“I’m not done yet, there’s… well, there’s a good deal more.”

Illya might not remember having written the thing, but he knows, without doubt, whatever else is in there can only make things worse. Far, far worse. What he wouldn’t give for a cyanide capsule, or a pit of venomous snakes, or a twenty-story window to leap out of. He heads to the drinks cart instead. “Do you have anything stronger than Scotch?”

“There’s the gin in the back, but the alcohol content isn’t much higher, and I’m low on tonic so…” he watches in mild horror as Illya pours himself two fingers from the green bottle and swallows it down immediately before pouring himself another. “Never mind, then. Shall I continue?”

Illya sits himself back down on the chair, clutching at the glass, a very serious expression on his face. “Yes.”

Waverly picks up the file again. “‘Sometimes his outfits look nice, but only sometimes. I am much better spy than Solo. In fact he is lucky I am his spy. I am excellent spy. He is handsome spy but I am handsome spy too sometimes. KBG is Russian institute and I am KGB so I save stupid cowboy spy from toxic chemical. But actually I prefer UNCLE. UNCLE is nice institute but UNCLE is not Russian institute. KGB is Russian institute but actually UNCLE is better. Do not tell KGB, but this is secret UNCLE report so it is ok to say UNCLE is better even though KGB is Russian institute which is better because it is Russian but actually-” To Alexander’s credit he does try to dampen down the grin on his face, but he doesn’t try _too_ hard. “It seems you catch yourself in a little bit of a loop there. It goes on like that for a while.”

Illya’s response is to down the remaining gin and slam the glass onto the table. Waverly takes that to mean he can move onto the next page. “After that there are some words which I can’t understand - I assume they’re made up - and a rather unhelpful drawing, I’m afraid, of what I presume is the floor plan of the building in which you were held captive.” He lifts up the paper so Illya can see it and points at a dark blob on a thing that looks vaguely like it could be a table. “I think that’s meant to be you.”

“Is that all?”

“Unfortunately not. You then move onto Gaby…”

“I did not… I was not disrespectful, was I?” he asks, terrified.

“You wrote her a poem.”

“ _Bozhe moi…_ ” He ducks his head into his hands in utter despair.

“It’s… one, two, three, four…” Waverly trails off as he continues counting in his head, “gosh,” he says, “it’s thirty six lines long.”

“I was on drugs.”

“Yes, that much is quite clear.”

“It affected my judgement and my rationality.”

Alexander does his best to look sympathetic. “Of course it did.”

“I obviously do not think _any_ of those things.”

“Of course you don’t. But if I’m honest, Kuryakin,” he says, skimming through the remainder of the report, “I’m a little hurt that I’m not included in this… lovely ode to the agents of UNC- oh, wait,” he looks up, grinning, “here I am.”

“No!”

“It’s in Russian,” Waverly says, seemingly not having heard Illya’s protest, “where on earth did you find a typewriter with Cyrillic script in the middle of the night at a tiny bed and breakfast in Antwerp?”

“I have no idea,” he says, but suddenly Mrs Meijer’s hostility and her comments to Napoleon about odd guest requests make sense.

“Never mind. I think I know enough to translate… Alexander Waverly is the f-” he stops, somewhat taken aback, and looks up from the document. “Kuryakin,” he says, almost affectionately, “I never knew.”

“ _Burn. it._ ”

“Yes, I suppose that would be a good idea.” He pulls out a box of matches from his desk drawer. “Cheer up, old chap, if you really think about it, this is quite an impressive feat.” He’s had enough fun with Illya, he thinks, it’s time to put the poor man out of his misery. “Not many spies will wake up after a night of heavy torture and think the first thing they must do is write a report to their superiors.” Striking the match, he raises the drug-fuelled tribute/report and sets it on fire. “It’s also quite touching to see how very much you care for your colleagues,” he says before tossing it into the metal bin to his right. “There we are. Now no one will ever know.”

“You do.”

“I’m a very experienced spymaster. I think I can be trusted to keep a secret or two.”

“Thank you. You have my sincere gratitude,” he says, and he means it. “Shall I write a new report?”

“No need. Teller and Solo’s should suffice. We’ll put it on file that you were exposed to the serum early on in the mission and thus were unable to offer a reliable account of what happened.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Think no more of it. Off you go now.”

Illya is out the door like a shot.

~*~

Solo meets him in the narrow corridor which leads to their shared office. “You ok, Peril?”

“I’m fine,” he says, clearly not fine. He adds a “thank you,” as an afterthought.

Napoleon gives him a once over. “I was heading out for the evening.” Seeing as Illya’s just come from Waverly’s office, he knows better than to ask what it was about. “You look like you could use a drink.”

“I just had one.”

“How about another one, then?”

“I had that, too.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “That bad?”

“No,” Illya reassures, “it’s just…” He’s struggling to find the word for it - if there even is one. “It’s complicated.”

“Well,” Solo says, “I haven’t had _any_ drinks today and it’s our last week living in London.”

Illya looks into Solo’s eyes, and then down to his _stupid American mouth_ before hastily glancing away to focus on the white, textured wallpaper of the house-turned-office. “Not tonight, Cowboy, thank you. I have to… pack,” he manages.

Napoleon takes the hint and pats him lightly on the back. “Suit yourself. Have a good evening, Peril.”

Illya nods and then turns around to catch Solo’s attention before he leaves. “Tomorrow,” he says.

“Hmm?” Napoleon asks, halting and looking back.

“How about tomorrow? We could all three of us head down to the pub after work. As a last ‘hurrah’? They say it like this in England, yes?”

Solo smiles, liking the idea. “Sure thing. See you in the morning.”


	5. Still Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waverly and Solo go on an outing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jebus Marina and Jehoosaphet I am SO SORRY! This has taken an excessively long time to write! And I haven’t even finished. If it helps at all, most of chapter 6 is done and coming soonish? (Chapter 6 was meant to be a little light Gallya but it turned into *8,000 words of Gallya flirting* and nearly 2,000 words of our trio having fun). The delay was caused by chapter 5 not wanting to be written, but chapter 6 demanding attention... and I couldn’t exactly post them out of order... (please don’t ask me about chapter 7 - the final chapter. That hasn’t even been written yet...)
> 
> This chapter might also have a little scene tacked on later (just a few hundred words) but I’ll let you know once 6 is up. 
> 
> This is, of course, if you’re still willing to read the fic - and PLEASE, PLEASE do no feel obliged to. It’s almost Valentine’s Day and I promised this whole thing done by New Year’s! I’m just so grateful for the reviews you gave!! Please don’t feel you need to read this if you’re not feeling up to it! 
> 
> Thank you Diadema!!
> 
> Best wishes,  
> Charlie (who’s still sorry)

Alexander squints through the dimness of heavy precipitation and the coming of the spring night. “Ah, Solo,” he says once he recognises the approaching figure, “perfectly on time, as usual.” He has to speak loudly enough to be heard over the water pounding against the pavement. The Landseer lion he stands in front of mercifully blocks the main onslaught of wind, but it does little to stop the cacophony of rain.

Napoleon tilts his black umbrella back at the familiar voice. “Evening, sir. Fine night we’re having.”

“Let’s save the chat for inside. Come along.” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he makes his way across the plaza of Trafalgar Square, eager to reach shelter. As Napoleon follows he realises they’re heading towards the National Gallery and he wonders briefly why Waverly didn’t organise to meet there instead of waiting for him out in the elements.

When they make it into the pavilion they take a moment to shake the wetness from their umbrellas and dust off any wayward raindrops from their clothes. Napoleon’s about to use the opportunity to ask what’s going on when Waverly knocks loudly on the large main door. He’s finding it all very suspicious, as if he’s deliberately being kept in the dark for as long as possible, but he knows that in such situations it’s best to wait for the reveal - spies do have a tendency for the dramatic and Waverly is no different from the rest of them in this regard. It shouldn’t be a long wait, in any case.

“Alexander! Good to see you, old chap.”

“Philip,” Waverly greets the man at the entrance with a warm smile and a friendly handshake. “It’s been a long time, how are you?” He’s relatively thin with brown, short hair. Napoleon guesses that he must be in his sixties and notices that while he’s dressed in an old fashioned tweed suit, it’s impeccable and perfectly tailored.

“Very well, thank you, how’s the Mrs?” Philip asks.

“Oh, dauntless as ever. Thanks for doing this,” he says, “especially considering how busy things must be today.”

“No trouble, no trouble at all.”

“This is Napoleon Solo, the young gentleman I was telling you about.”

“Pleasure,” Solo says, leaning in to shake the older man’s hand. “Philip?” he asks, checking something. “You wouldn’t happen to be Sir Philip _Hendy_? Director of the Gallery?”

The man smiles. “The very same. But come in, come in, the both of you. Let’s get away from this dastardly downpour.

“Sir Hendy’s been kind enough to let us take a tour of their latest exhibit before its opening tomorrow evening,” Waverly explains finally.

Solo’s eyes widen in excitement at the prospect. “That’s incredibly kind of you,” he smiles as they make their way up the stairs. “Some of my absolute favourite still lifes are were painted during the Golden Age.”

“Yes,” Waverly says, “I suspected they would be.” Solo recognises the amused crinkle of his eyes and that subtle twist to the corner of his lips, barely keeping a smirk at bay. It’s not exactly difficult to guess what he’s referring to, out of all the things Solo _acquired_ during his tour of Europe there had been a clear preference for seventeenth century Dutch artwork.

“Any friend of Alexander’s is a friend of mine. It’s the least I could do,” Sir Hendy says kindly, “but unfortunately I will have to leave you to your own devices as there’s still a lot to be set up.” He clasps Waverly’s hand and shakes vigorously. “It’s good to see you again, let’s have dinner next week.”

“I’ll have my secretary call to arrange it.”

“Excellent, good to meet you, Mr Solo. Enjoy the exhibit.”

“Nice to meet you, Sir Hendy,” Napoleon says. “And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, it’s Waverly who asked.”

“All the same,” he says, taking his hand and shaking it goodbye. “It’s appreciated. Have a good evening.”

They wait for Sir Hendy to leave their vicinity before they speak to each other. “By all means, Solo,” Waverly gestures to the surrounding gallery, “have at. As long as we keep out of the way, you can peruse to your heart’s content.”

“Business first?” Napoleon suggests. “I’m still not quite sure why we’re here. Not that I’m complaining but was there a reason we couldn’t have this meeting back in the office?”

“Oh no, there’s nothing clandestine about it,” Waverly reassures. “No business today. The exhibit isn’t open officially until day after tomorrow, but you’ll be in New York by then. I had a connection and I thought it might be worth using on this occasion.” He nods at Napoleon. “Take it as a birthday present, if a few days early.”

It’s difficult to believe that compassion is the only reason for this field trip. “That’s very generous,” he says, but Napoleon’s not naïve; every spy has a motive, and he can’t imagine that Waverly is above such tactics, but he finds that he minds it a little less if he’s being manipulated into something, because he actually - and to his own surprise - trusts him, which is far more than he can say for any of his previous employers. “It means a lot,” he says honestly. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense,” Waverley dismisses, “it’s the least I can do.” With Solo having the most experience of the three initial UNCLE agents, and with Teller and Kuryakin having been out of commission for brief periods at various points, he’s pushed the American the most in terms of intensive mission work. If all goes well the pressure should lessen once they settle in New York but, in any case, the man’s done well and Waverly can’t help but feel proud, both in his own ability - having been the one to have recruited Solo for UNCLE - and in Solo’s overall performance for the agency. “Don’t get too used to it, though,” he adds with a grin, “this isn’t something I can do every day. Nor do I have the inclination to.”

Napoleon doesn’t miss the rare reveal of undisguised kindness in his boss’ eyes. “Wouldn’t expect it, sir,” he says, equally touched by the moment they’re sharing.

“Good,” Waverly says, “good.” He clears his throat. “Is that a Kalf?”

“I believe it is,” Solo confirms, “and one of his better ones, too.”

“Yes.” Waverly draws his fingers into an arch, tracing the shape of one of the objects in the painting, “a masterful ability to play with contrast, wouldn’t you agree?” he asks. The question launches them into a lengthy and amiable discussion on colour, light, beauty and vanitas as they tour the exhibition.

“Absolutely fascinating,” he says once Napoleon relates an interesting theory about one of the pieces. “I had no idea.” Alexander has a decent amount of art history knowledge but he finds that Solo, to his credit, is a trove of information - even more so than one would expect of an art thief - and he’s an adept storyteller to boot.

“To be fair, not many people do. I only found out because I was once very close to a student who wrote their thesis on the baroque era.”

“Very close?” he asks, intrigued. “Did you strike up this friendship to enable your procurement business?”

“There were… other motivations,” Solo says cryptically as they wander.

Seeing as he’s unwilling to divulge further details, Waverly moves on. “You haven’t stolen any of these, have you?” he asks as they’re admiring the only Maria van Oosterwijck in the collection.

When Napoleon realises he’s being questioned in earnest he laughs. “Honestly? You’ve kept me too busy. I haven’t had the time.”

Alexander offers a chuckle at the thought and returns his focus back to the painting, leaving them both silent for a few moments. “But how would you?”

“Sir?”

“I’m curious to know,” he persists under the guise of idle conversation.

Napoleon wonders what he’s playing at, and he stares at Waverly until he wins his full attention away from the art. “It’s a little complicated,” he admits once Alexander’s looking at him, “it involves a lot of preparation, as anything worth doing inevitably does, but taking from a museum isn’t normally as challenging as stealing from a private collection.”

“The systems appear to be relatively advanced in the National Gallery. They even have a surveillance camera at the back entrance.”

“But there’s no recording footage. You’d have to create a diversion to distract security for about a minute and you’re in. You bypass the alarm system connected to the painting - it’s high spec but easy enough to disarm with the right tools - you then replace the real with a forgery, reactivate the alarm and either you sneak back out with another distraction or you crawl out of an open window,” he pauses as he takes in the number of paintings surrounding them and glances up at the ceiling, “or better yet, you hole up in the ventilation system until the right moment and then you come back out and steal another one.”

“That’s very bold.”

“Everything in that profession is, it’s the nature of the beast.” Solo offers him a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “No one knows anything’s happened until the paintings’ next appraisal. And if you have really good copies made, no one’s ever the wiser.”

“Hmm,” Waverly hums and then cocks his head when a thought occurs to him. “If one can have copies made as good as the original, how would you know for certain you’ve gotten there first? How do you know you’re not simply stealing some else’s fake?”

Napoleon considers it and then smiles. “I suppose you don’t, but it’s very difficult to obtain replicates of that calibre. And it’s costly. There are only three people I know of who forge well enough to fool the experts, and only one of them focuses on sixteenth century European art.”

“So you’ve had dealings with this expert art forger.”

“We’re on good terms, yes. Certainly well enough that I could ask her a favour.” He’s starting to feel as if Waverly’s gearing up for something. _So much for no motivation_ , he thinks, guessing where this might be going.

“You see, that’s the thing I’m not quite sure about you, Solo.”

It seems he guessed wrong. “What do you mean?”

“You went after a lot of goods. Most of their disappearances made the papers - a few of them didn’t, but that’s because the owners didn’t want them to.” He’s frowning in thought. “From what you’ve just told me I suspect there must have been at least a _few_ incidents no one’s even aware of apart from yourself, but...”

“Sir?” Napoleon’s now completely lost.

“Until you were caught and dragged into the CIA, your modus operandi wasn’t exactly subtle,” Waverly explains. “Big vaults, high profiles and you made sure they knew they’d been burgled.” He pauses to look at Solo, as if trying to read something from his profile. “You _wanted_ those people to know what you did.”

“I mostly just wanted their things.”

“Why?”

The answer seems obvious. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Yes,” Waverly says, seemingly unsatisfied with the response, “but was part of it not for the satisfaction of taking those things from _them_?”

“Ah,” it clicks. He understands, suddenly, the reason for the roundabout questions, the slow build up of discussion. The pieces fall into place and he’s much happier than he should be to discover that the real purpose of this chat is not as cynical or disappointing as he’d anticipated it would be. “You’re asking me if I hate the rich and aristocratic,” he says. “You’re asking me if I have a problem with you.”

“Well,” says Waverly, “I wouldn’t necessarily single myself out but-”

“But you’re the earl of Brinscot.”

“ _Former_ , Solo. I let go of all that some time ago.”

Napoleon smiles knowingly. “My mistake.”

“Although since you bring it up so directly, yes, I suppose I’d like very much to have an answer.”

“It has nothing to do with them,” he says after some considered thought on the matter, “and everything to do with me. I don’t resent them, but the satisfaction of taking something from someone who thinks they’re invulnerable is a difficult thing to resist, and they have plenty to spare, it’s not like it will ruin them.” He turns his gaze to the painting in front. “Besides, the things they have are just _so_ beautiful.”

“We all have our drug of choice, I suppose.” Waverly admits. “Mine was somewhat more literal than yours.”

That peaks his interest. “If you’re up for a little game of quid pro quo-”

“The drugs or the relinquishment of title?” he asks, anticipating what Solo might be after.

“The latter. Considering the time you spent in Hong Kong, I think I can safely assume the specifics of the former.”

“It’s not a very interesting story, unfortunately.”

“I’m still interested to hear it.”

“Well, I’m the second son, technically,” Waverly put his hands into his pockets, “but Harry died in a terrible crash three months into his twentieth birthday so the estate went to me upon my father’s passing.”

“And what led you to give it all up?”

“My sister,” he says, “she always had it a bit rough, being the youngest and the only girl. It was only right she get the place and the easiest way to do that was to let go of everything.” He give Solo a wry grin. “That’s it, really.”

Napoleon suspects that that’s far from ‘it’, but just as Waverly respected his boundaries of privacy in their earlier conversation, he doesn't try to prod here. “And did working for intelligence have anything to do with it?” he asks instead, steering conversation into a different personal matter.

Alexander scoffs. “It had a lot. Of course it would. The less you have to lose, the more invulnerable you become.”

“You’re married, sir,” Solo points out.

“Couldn’t help that.” He tilts his head and grins, “I tried to avoid it for as long as possible,” he says, “but when we took the plunge I pulled myself off the playing field. Started climbing up the ladder, instead.”

Something strikes him. “Is that why you’re training up Gaby?”

Waverly raises an eyebrow. “No,” he says eventually. “It’s not that serious, is it?”

“Not from what I can tell, but I get the feeling it might be, given the chance.”

“Playing Cupid, Solo? I didn’t expect that from you.”

“No,” Napoleon hesitates. _What am I doing?_ “I’m just… I’m trying to say that she’d never let that sort of thing get in the way of doing her job. Neither of them would. If you’re planning to separate the team merely because they might be-”

“No, no,” Waverly interrupts, “I realise you have a deservedly high opinion of Ms Teller but I’ll thank you to have more faith in _me_. You’re not the only one who sees her potential. I’ve selected her for a number of reasons, but her baffling attachment to Kuryakin certainly isn’t one of them.”

Napoleon grins. “I’m not quite sure she understands it herself. But there’s…” he hesitates, “I suppose there’s something innately likeable about him.”

Waverly notes the interesting tone of response and files that away. “Yes, I quite agree. Kuryakin has an intensity to him that’s utterly charming. Not to mention he’s a brilliant strategist and a phenomenal agent.”

“But he lacks the qualities of a leader?”

“He takes things far too personally. I don’t think he’s capable of not wearing his heart on his sleeve.”

“And what about me?”

“You, Solo?” Waverly feigns surprise. “You’d fit the role like a glove. But wouldn’t it bore you out of your mind?”

Napoleon laughs. “Yes,” he says. “Yes it would. Only,” he adds, “I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Well, that’s an enlightening piece of information. I’m glad you’ve told me.”

“Are you?” There’s a sudden seed of doubt that’s sprouted and he wonders if this was the ultimate purpose of their little excursion.

“I have plans for the agency, Solo, good plans - a legacy of sorts, I suppose - but I won’t be able to see them all through and Teller’s a long way away from being ready to take on the position. She’s still hungry for adventure, which is entirely fair. UNCLE could use someone like you in the interim.” He smirks. “If you call being the director of a global spy agency for a good seven to nine years an interim position.”

Solo’s suddenly quite excited at the prospect. “She’d be able to spend more time on the field,” he adds. He knows he’s conveniently feeding a story he wants to hear, but it doesn’t make it any less true. It’s a win-win whichever way he looks at it. “You’d push her less, she’d have more time to grow.” And it isn’t as if he would be stealing away a position from her.

“You’d be a hell of a duo, you as head, her as deputy. And when it came time to pass on the mantle, she’d have the benefit of both my and your experiences to enhance her own.” He spots a look of hesitation. “Don’t like the idea?”

Napoleon shakes his head. “No, I do. It’s just that career agents don’t end up in positions of senior management. High ups normally look a lot like you.”

It was a fair point. “Yes, but we’re not a normal agency. And I do have _some_ pull.”

Napoleon quirks his lips in mild suspicion. “You planned this all along.”

The old Waverly glint makes its appearance. “Not quite,” he says amused. “I had other, more altruistic, intentions for our visit to the Gallery but I can’t deny I haven’t thought about the possibility of having this conversation with you at some point in the future.”

“Nothing is written in stone, I take it?”

“No,” Waverly says. “That goes without saying.”

“You’re not talking to Gaby about this yet?”

“I wasn’t going to, not for a good year or two,” he admits, “but this little chat might change up the plan.”

Solo thinks that might be for the best; Gaby deserves to know, to be given the choice in her own future. There’s just one last thing he has to know. “But why _are_ you telling me all of this?”

“Well, since you opened the door, who am I to refuse entry?” Waverly pats Napoleon lightly on the shoulder. “Trust is a two way street, Mr Solo. To survive in your line of work you need to trust in me absolutely. Unquestioningly. I owe you the same in return, and that requires frankness and open honesty.”

“Hmm,” Napoleon hums. “Can’t really argue with that.”


	6. Have A Merry Christmas...

The sun’s not quite set yet and it’s snowing heavily, but that’s not the only reason for the desertion of the New York streets. It’s the twenty fifth of December. Illya’s spending the day, alone, in his penthouse a few blocks away from the park. He’s made no plans except for a few hours of muscle maintenance and maybe reading the copy of Heller’s _Catch-22_ his Secret Santa gave him at the office party (considering the flood of new staff one of the receptionists had suggested the ridiculous idea as a team building exercise).

He knows Solo’s with family and he’s assuming Gaby’s at one of the many events she was invited to by the newer agents. That’s not to say he wasn’t also offered his fair share of invitations, but he politely declined them all; Christmas has never been big on his agenda and the cultural differences in how it’s celebrated are unappealing enough for him to avoid putting any effort into changing his attitude. Quiet was what he was hoping for, a chance for reflection and peaceful meditation. But it’s not quite gone to plan.

He’s found himself standing at one of his windows, watching the blizzard outside, his focus drawn more to the nostalgia the storm’s invoking rather than to the flurry itself, and it’s squeezing at his heart in a way it hasn’t done in some time. His back is exposed to the dim expanse that is his Midtown apartment - stylishly decorated by himself and thus perfectly _au courant_ , it’s far bigger than he needs, especially since he’s so rarely there. _Perhaps_ , he thinks, _that’s the problem._ Illya is used to luxury on missions but he’s never lived it in the way he currently does, and it’s not like he’s had a chance to settle into this new existence: they’ve only physically been in New York for an amalgamated two of the nine months UNCLE’s been based there. Even in London, the Bayswater lodgings UNCLE had procured for him had been relatively humble compared to this apartment. He’s not adverse to it but it’s still too new an experience for him to feel entirely comfortable.

The extravagance behind him, combined with the snowfall outside and that aching he’s feeling within all serve to worsen his current state of melancholy. He decides quickly that he must go for a walk. He needs to hear that familiar crunch of snow under his heels, feel the cold bite at him until he becomes numb to it, breathe in the fresh scent of ice. He’s suddenly excited at the prospect. This is a chance for him to anchor himself into this new reality, it’ll be the first time he’s had a real opportunity to take a stroll in the snow in almost two years: his Hyde Park ‘constitutionals’ (as Waverly called them) always required an umbrella, and to his annoyance he’d missed out on one of the coldest winters in British record when he’d returned briefly to Moscow in late ‘63 / early ‘64 for ‘administrative purposes’ - supposed paper pushing to facilitate his official transfer to UNCLE. After the dressing downs, the threats, the unsubtle warnings of facing dire consequences if he should ultimately fall under the thrall of the western capitalist regime, he’d meandered in freshly laid snow for over three hours through his beloved native city, from the Lubyanka to the one-room flat he’d called home since the day he’d become a KGB operative.

A lifetime ago, when his father had first been exposed, the Russian government had seized his family’s assets; they’d done the same to him once they’d caught a whiff of his ‘defection’ (a sling amongst many arrows hurled at him by former comrades). He had expected it, of course. The snide jibes, the open hostility, the trust and pride in him turning to suspicion and disappointment. The envy. They took his money, what little of it there was. Every meagre ruble he’d bled and sweated for in the name of his motherland had been reclaimed. They’d ordered him to clear his apartment of his personal effects, so that another agent could take his place. _Fair enough_ , he’d thought, it had never been about possessions or wealth but they’d wanted to make a statement. The wheel of communism would roll on without Illya Kuryakin. A valued cog but easily replaced, they’d sacrifice him and thrive on, just like they had his father. That’s where the blow had meant to land, but even they knew it had been a poorly aimed shot. They had trained him to take such criticism. They had drilled into his head that if he ever became less than useful to the cause he would be left behind, abandoned, his name forgotten. For someone who had been so desperate to reforge the reputation of his family it had once been an effective motivator, a reminder to never be complacent.

The lesson had been learned, but the fear was long gone.

They’d let him keep his clothes, at least. Too tall of be of much use to anyone else, the last thing the KGB wanted was to have him look a fool by letting him return to their enemies with nothing at all, despite their desire to strip him entirely of Mother Russia’s bounty. At one time he’d been their best, if they’d been resentfully cornered into giving him up to ensure they had a stake in this new super-team of global spies, then they’d at least allow him to look the part.

He’d packed up all his belongings into two suitcases and a small box and he’d left without a second look back.

Now as he wanders Central Park he wonders what’s the matter with him. He’s not Napoleon, whose desires have shaped him into a unique, Trans-Atlantic hybrid, a creature of two worlds and thus from neither. He’s certainly not Gaby, who’s never had reason to love her homeland and been given every excuse to despise it. He is a child of Soviet Russia, through and through, nothing that’s happened will ever change that. There is no crisis of identity, _and maybe that’s the problem too_ , he thinks.

London was both old and new in ways similar to Moscow. UNCLE was still novel back then and they operated under the premise of transience; they were on loan, and they were _not_ in America. The incongruity was not felt as keenly as he experiences it now. He knows it’s silly to even think it, but the snow sounds _different_ under his shoes. The air isn’t as nearly sharp. The atmosphere is incomparable. His apartment is too big. This feels like a mission, this isn’t _home_ , not yet at least. There’s far more to adjust to than anticipated and it irks him.

Illya walks himself all over the park for nearly an hour, but when the sun sets and the moisture of melted snow on his clothing causes his bones to ache, he begrudgingly surrenders to common sense and makes his way back. Once in the apartment building, however, he stops at the old elevator and thinks he’d rather take the eight flights of stairs to his penthouse suite. He’s already done a few miles but he’s eager to avoid returning to his decorated cavern. So he climbs, one floor after the other - he doesn’t even break a sweat - mind empty and focussed only on physical movement until he reaches the top and has nowhere else to run. His attention is instantly captured by the woman sitting against his front door.

All self pity is banished at the sight.

Gaby’s got a newspaper in her lap, a plastic bag with takeout to her right, what looks like an envelope on her left and she’s hovering a bottle of scotch just above her. Her head is tilted back as she spills a little of the amber liquid into her open mouth, careful to avoid it touching her lips. She swallows it down and then replaces the cap with a satisfied clearing of her throat. She turns to look at him. “Did you enjoy your walk?” she asks. “I saw you going into the park when I arrived and I figured I’d wait for you here. I didn’t think you’d take so long. The food’s cold.”

“Sorry,” he apologises, “I didn’t know you’d be coming.”

She stands as he approaches and hands him the bottle. “Merry Christmas,” she says. “I drank some of it. That makes us even.”

His heartbeat quickens at the fact that she’s come to see him and he opens the door. “You brought food, too?”

“Terrible Chinese,” she answers. “It’s the only place that wasn’t closed for the holiday.”

They take off their shoes together and then she heads to the kitchen while he hangs their coats. “Are all your plates on the top shelf?” she calls out.

“Unfortunately yes.” He makes his way in and procures her a few. “There are chopsticks in the utensil drawer,” he says with amusement.

Gaby nudges him on his hip at his implication, but takes them out nonetheless. In their last trip to Tokyo a slippery bastard of a green bean had escaped from her grasp and somehow landed with a splashy _plop_ into the warm sake jug on the other side of the table. She’d never heard Illya or Solo laugh so damn hard. It had almost blown their cover, too, but it’d been worth it just to see her partners in such a state. She’d laughed right along with them, as well as the next time they’d shared a meal using chopsticks, but that had been nearly a year ago. For some unfathomable reason the two of them still found it hilarious. “Come on,” she says, “I’m hungry and I still have to give you your Christmas present.”

She walks away far too quickly for him to see her face. “I thought the scotch was the gift,” he says, confused and suddenly guilt-ridden. “I haven’t bought you anything.”

“You bought me that afghan in Kabul.”

“That was three weeks ago and it was only because you asked me to do so after you ran out of cash.”

“I still haven’t paid you back. We could call it a gift and leave it at that.”

He’s smiling as he brings them both glasses of sparkling water. “Depends on how good the present you’ve brought me is.”

She does her best to hide the fact that’s she’s utterly charmed by the delivery of his quip - deep voiced, self satisfied, stupidly cute and thus ridiculously sexy - but it’s hard going and she has to turn away before it becomes too visible. “Keep it up and I’ll leave you here by yourself, _and_ I’ll take my terrible Chinese food with me.”

“Please don’t, I need you.”

For a moment she’s taken back by the bluntness of the comment, her heart leaps into her throat and she has no answer for him until she swallows heavily, realising that she must have misunderstood. She does her best to gather herself without him noticing. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she says.

He’s dishing out noodles onto her plate but shifts slightly so she has a view of his bicep. “My arms are weakening, see?” he says, and then passes her the stir fried vegetables. “My entire chest and abdominal region is becoming flabby,” he explains, “I was going to work out this evening and I could actually use your help.”

Gaby’s intrigued. “I’m no good as a spotter.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would be,” he says and then grins, “but I have another idea.”

* * *

 

_Three hours later_

“‘They were in a race and he knew it, because they knew from bitter experience that Colonel Cathcart might raise the number of missions again at any time.’” Gaby lowers the book carefully, her own thoughts too distracting to let her continue. The odd, repetitive sensation of floating up and then dropping down isn’t helping, either.

From underneath she can hear the soft grunts of exertion coming out of Illya as he lifts and lowers the combined total of both their body weights in smooth, consistent motions. It hasn’t escaped her notice that his pace has remained steady, and his stamina… well, to say she’s impressed would be an understatement. It’s been an hour and there’s no indication of his slowing down, let alone stopping.

“What is he trying to achieve?” she asks.

Illya huffs softly as he pushes up. “Yossarian?”

“No, Waverly.”

“You’ll have-” he pauses as he completes another rep- “to be more specific,” he finishes after the next one.

“I know he comes from an old method of operating, but I’ve always thought he was a little different - more _modern_ \- yet I’m being asked to cover administrative duties in addition to my actual job, I don’t know what to make of it,” she explains. It’s not the extra work that’s been bothering her. Not every mission is grandiose and when they’re not running big ones it’s expected that they work for the agency on other matters: _mountains_ of paperwork, protection detail, training, research and development, diplomacy… _her_ tasks, however, are noticeably different from the ones the others do. “Is it because I’m a woman?”

“Nonsense,” he says quickly before dipping into another push up.

“Payroll. Data analysis. Computing. They’re women’s jobs and I’ve been involved in all of them.” She knows it’s unfair of her to complain and she hesitates, thinking of the alternative, “or is it because he doesn’t think he can push me further as an agent? Am I not learning fast enough? Is he trying to lead me into permanent desk duty?”

“Gaby,” he’s sounding almost frustrated, “I would tell you- even _Solo_ would say if you underperformed.”

“Yet he coddles me, Illya.” It’s the anxiety kicking in, she knows it. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Waverly’s word, but when they’d talked in London the entire agency had consisted of no more than eight people, including a cleaner and a doorman for the office. Now they’re _surrounded_ with agents of similar calibre to Illya and Solo (though admittedly, not quite their level). “He doesn’t talk to anyone else in the same way. Even the new recruits, fresh out of university.”

“Not coddling,” he corrects, “training. Different things.”

She bites her lip, torn between her head, which knows better, and her heart, which is pricking with insecurity. “Then what’s the game? What am I missing here?”

“Ask him.”

“I can’t just _ask_ Waverly,” she says, “he’ll never give a straight answer.”

“You’re one of first agents-” he does a rep- “he recruited for UNCLE,” and then a second. “He does not,” he says after a third, “select,” and a fourth, “incompetent people. Have you thought,” a fifth, “maybe he is grooming you?”

“Grooming me?” The idea surprises her. She leans over slightly and twists her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. “For what?”

He halts his motions. “Don’t move. You need to stay balanced or we both risk injury.”

“Urgh.” She rolls her head back into position, so that she’s staring up at the ceiling again. “When you said you needed my help to exercise, I didn’t think you meant this.” She winces once the words come out, realising that there’s only one way he can take it. She holds her breath, waiting for his response.

He starts the push ups again. “You had better idea?” he asks and then grunts in a way she’s convinced is deliberately suggestive in nature.

She doesn’t miss the flirtation in his voice, either. He’s devious when he wants to be, but she’s definitely not going to encourage him down that road any further. There’s an _understanding_ between them. One they reached implicitly when they realised they were going to be partners on a long term basis. In some ways it’s made things a little better, and in most others - at least for her - far, far worse. Knowing that they’re not going to cross a line has meant that Illya’s been even more comfortable with casual flirtation. On occasion he’ll catch her off guard and she’ll have to hide her blush. Other times she’ll give as good as she gets. And then things get heated and they have to walk away from each other quickly. “What did you mean, ‘grooming’?”

“To be his successor,” he explains.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Who else is there?”

“You’re forgetting about his current deputy,” she says, “Herman Kwan’s known Waverly for a decade.”

He drops suddenly and then pitches to the right, throwing her off his back amidst a squawk as she tumbles the few centimetres to the floor. He uses her surprise to his advantage as he rolls with her, pinning her loosely underneath him.

It only takes her a second to get her bearings, and when she does she scrunches her nose. “You need a shower,” she says.

“Kwan is almost the same age as Waverly. They will likely retire at the same time, too.”

She looks up from watching his lips. “Waverly has pull but how could he ever guarantee who’d replace him? It’ll be ten years, at least.” She notices the bead of sweat dripping from his temple and she’s tempted to wipe it away for him.

“Maybe not necessarily successor of UNCLE. Maybe of himself. When you are not running missions he is teaching you how to run an organisation, you must see this.”

“By making me haggle for goods and balance books?”

“You were the only one he involved in the early selection of recruits. That’s not secretarial work. You keep doing these things and eventually you will know every corner of UNCLE. You are seeing first hand how it functions. That will make you very valuable,” he pauses, thinking about it. “You might be correct. Perhaps he will  eventually reduce your mission work, but it would be to focus on progression up the chain of command.”

“But I enjoy being out on the field. I don’t know if I would ever want to sacrifice that for being a glorified company manager.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everything you pick up is useful for active missions. If you don’t want what he offers when the time comes, then don’t take it, but you won’t have wasted your time learning. Perhaps this is why he has not said anything to you directly. He is waiting to see if it can work out, if it is the right call.”

She stares into his eyes, blue and kind, before turning away. “There are plenty of others, better than me.”

He has to fight the urge to plan a kiss in the soft spot behind her ear. “Not true,” he breathes, “you fooled Solo in your first mission. Someone with a decade more experience than you and one of the best spies in the world.”

She notices his arms are trembling, the literal thousand push ups were catching up to him. Without warning Gaby wraps her legs around his hips and flips him over onto his back. He hisses, his fighting instinct activated by the sudden switch in position, one hand grabbing her thigh while the other holds her shoulder. “And you?” she asks unfazed from her seat on top of him.

He’s coiled to spring, to gain the upper hand again, but he stops himself in time and takes a deep breath, calming the adrenaline rush and dropping his head back onto the carpet. “You did an even better job on me,” he says before letting her go and tapping her lightly on her leg in a request for her to move out of the way. “Now, if you are done fishing for compliments, I am going to take a shower.”

“I was not- _gyaaah_!” She’s unable to finish her protest as he lifts her while he stands. “I was about to get up!”

“You took too long and I thought maybe you want to join me.” Gaby’s arms are leaning on his shoulders, she’s wrapped deliciously tightly around him for support, her entire body pressed up close to his. “It’s very spacious with excellent pressure and temperature control,” he entices.

She hates it when he does this, he only feels the freedom to tease her because he knows without doubt that she’ll refuse: she has to or he’d never dare to ask such dangerous questions in the first place. But, _God_ , does she want to kiss him. He’s warm and solid in her arms. The musty smell of exertion, the pulsing of his blood, he’s beautiful and passionate and human and it’s a heady combination, nearly impossible to resist. From the look in his eyes he’s hungry, too.

But she can’t give in. They’d never be satisfied with just a kiss, there’s so much more simmering underneath, burning her from the inside out, waiting to devour her. She’s finding it harder each day to imagine life without Illya in it and she can’t afford to think about how she’d feel if she lets herself love him. How very easy it would be to ruin her. _No_ , she thinks, she won’t risk it. “If I go in that shower with you,” she says seriously, “neither of us will come out of it clean.”

He puts her down. He’s not disappointed, but the mood’s been ruined and his desire’s softened into something a little sadder. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he says.

She doesn’t like how cold and alone she suddenly feels without his presence to heat her. “There’s no rush,” she says as she watches him walk away, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says with a smile, “open up the scotch. I won’t be long.”

* * *

 

Illya’s sitting on the couch, watchless and in his undershirt. His elbows are on his knees and his chin is resting on his fist as he contemplates his next move. Gaby’s sitting in the chair opposite him, having shifted it from the adjacent to better position herself for their game. The bottle of whisky is on her end of the table and while their glasses have been drunk from, neither of them have, as yet, required refilling: a testament to their concentration.

He’s assessing the board, confirming things have gone according to his initial plan (of course they have). In one move he’ll checkmate her, all he has to do is shift his white knight into position. It’s proving to be an unusually difficult task as there are other factors far more tempting than strategy and victory which are in play, but after much deliberation he makes up his mind to do it.

The very _instant_ before he’s about to make his move, however, just as he’s pushing himself past the paralysis of indecision, Gaby sighs in satisfaction as she picks up and polishes off her glass. The sound resonates within his very core and the sudden, accelerated pounding of his blood begins screaming into ears.

His hands remain stuck in their original position under his chin.

“Would you like a top up?” she asks, shaking the bottle lightly to get his attention.

“Sure,” he nods and deliberately goes back to staring at the board.

He can hear the clink of glass against glass and the flow of liquid as the drink is poured out, so he uses that to refocus. It helps. A little.

“You’re low on ice,” she says when she’s done. “I’ll fetch some from the kitchen. Don’t make your move until I come back.”

He has no idea if she’s being genuine or making fun of how long he’s taking and he can’t help himself from looking up as she leaves to try and discern the truth. It’s too late to tell, all he sees is the back of her, but unfortunately it’s enough to spark yet another set of extreme emotions within him. She’s barefooted, her hair’s unbound and there’s something incredibly intimate at the sight; she’s relaxed - he’d dare to say contented - at ease with world. It’s so blissfully heart wrenching to see that his chest physically aches.

When she returns with the ice tray he watches, enamoured. Her fingernails are pristinely polished but short, practical, and though her mechanic’s calluses have softened, they’re still visible. He hopes they never disappear. When she’s done dishing out the ice she sits back into her seat and cups her face with one hand, resting her elbow on her knee, mirroring his posture. “Your move,” she says, lifting her drink with her free hand and sipping.

“I’m aware,” he says. And just to give himself something to do, he picks up his scotch and drinks, too. “Chess is a game of patience and careful contemplation.”

“Hmm,” she says, “take all the time you need.”

The game was her idea; the extra rules, the penalties, they were designed to dispel his suspicion at it being her suggestion, to lure him in, a siren song in the guise of alcohol and passing the time, and he fell into the trap thinking, somehow, he was equal to the challenge. He could beat her now. He could call the game to an end, distance himself, rebuild the wall between them, just like she had done earlier that very evening. But for all Illya Kuryakin’s power, he cannot muster the strength to move the knight.

With a light huff he gives in, finally, and takes her pawn with his bishop instead.

The atmosphere in the room shifts. It’s subtle, but quickly felt - a sixth sense, a red flag, an instinct warning him that he’s just made a mistake. And it’s coming from Gaby.

He feels her gaze on him suddenly. Can sense it as if it were a newly lit match, setting fire to bone dry wood. She’s far from stupid, she saw the danger, she knows he did not take the opportunity to win. It strikes to him that she did it on purpose, that she left herself vulnerable to see what he would do. He looks up and he’s ensnared by the delight in her dark eyes, the smugness resting on her mouth as she slowly, deliberately, unhooks her earrings. One then the other. Left, then right, each done with a tilt of her head, exposing the length of her slender, pretty neck. “Well played,” she says, “soon there won’t be anything left on me.”

“I like to be methodical,” he manages with a wry grin. He both loathes and loves this game of theirs, the push and pull, the ache of longing, the self-inflicted searing of his heart. This line they’ve drawn between them is torture and like an excitable dog he’s done nothing but bark and play at the fence that separates them. She holds fast, most of the time, but he supposes she’s as human as he is. Resistance can only last so long and after what _didn’t_ happen earlier with the shower she must be feeling unsatisfied. This is probably her way of getting back at him, he concludes, for forcing her to be the responsible one.

She swallows down her drink and pours herself another. “So your plan is to strip me of everything?” she asks, “To wear down my every defence until I’m left naked. And then you go in for the kill.”

“You make me sound like some ruthless predator.”

“You are,” she admits, “but I mean it as a compliment.”

From the tone in which she says it he doesn’t believe her, and he debates, as Gaby looks down briefly at the chessboard, if such pain is actually good for them.

“Don’t you want to be in charge someday?” she asks, changing the topic quickly. “You have the experience, the stamina, the strategic mind necessary to do something like that.”

“I never figured I would live that long,” he smiles, a little embarrassed to share such thoughts with her, “I always expected that I would die in some glorious act. A great mission that would have my name remembered for decades within the agency.”

“Ambitious,” she says, “and foolish.”

“Of course I did not actively seek death, but the idea of it did not frighten me, not when I knew it could guarantee redemption.”

She seemingly plucks her black rook at random and moves it backwards two spaces. In perfect reach of his queen.

He doesn’t need to see the daring in her eyes to understand her intention.

If they want each other so much, isn’t it just as detrimental that they’re not together? He’s at war on this, he’s never been one to shy away from emotion, it’s certainly not the _Russian way_ to deny himself the truth of what he wants, but his devotion to duty is a selfish creature and there’s far too much weight on his shoulders already. He has a whole country to make proud, his family name to restore, a personal ambition to satisfy, and he has to _survive_ in his profession long enough to do so. Yet she’s made room for herself amongst all of it. She’s swanned her way in and filled every single one of his senses. He loves her entirely without question, without regret. But it’s not proper, it’s unprofessional, detrimental, even, to the team, and she is especially keen to hold that line.

“And now?”

“Now?”

“You talk as if those thoughts were in the past. Have they changed?”

He looks at her carefully. _I suppose they have_ , he thinks. “Yes.”

“How so?”

“I want to live,” he admits, “for as long as I can, as best as I can. I want to do the right thing, but I don’t want to waste the life I have.”

“What’s different?”

Looking at her, the answer hits him with the sudden force of a freight train. “I have a home,” he says.

She’s visibly taken back by his confession. Her eyes have widened, unblinking, and she has no answer for him save a sharp intake of breath. There’s fear and love and sadness and hope all jumbled up in her. He knows. He’s not stupid, either. He understands the fragility of her heart, and he’ll wait. He’ll wait until she’s ready, however long that takes. In the meantime, it’s drunken games of chess, meaningless flirtation and self-satisfaction when cold showers aren’t enough to do the job.

He follows her lead and takes the rook with his queen.

It wakes her out of her stupor. “All the jewellery’s gone,” she says, standing slowly from the chair.

“You don’t have to-”

“Top or bottom?”

He doesn’t answer but she catches his gaze as it betrays him and flits briefly down. She unbuttons her slacks without ceremony and lets them drop to the floor with a soft _whump_. She’s wearing lace hip huggers and they leave nothing to be imagined through the thin mesh. He feels himself hardening until she leans over the board, forcing a change of view and quickly takes his pawn with one of her own. “Top,” she demands as she sits back into her chair, playing with the piece in between her fingers.

He looks at her, unamused, before he eventually pulls off his undershirt.

“Isn’t this much more fun?” She’s beaming at him, revelling in his discomfort. She’d give anything to have that disapproving mouth on hers, to have that warm, hard body sink her further into the plushness of the chair with his weight. Her heart is beating at a mile a minute and her fingers burn with a craving for touch. The bottle of scotch she bought him is a poor substitute, but it’s all she’s got so a substitute it is. She leans forward again and grabs her glass from the table. She hopes her hand doesn’t shake as noticeably as she feels it does.

“Is this revenge?” he asks. “For comment about the shower?”

“A little,” she answers, “but mostly I just like it when you look.”

“With you,” he glances at the pieces on the board and swipes her knight, “I will always look. Top.”

It’s become a challenge now, a race to the finish. She does not break contact with his gaze, unbuttoning the blouse and tossing it to one side before quickly plucking her king and moving it one square to the left.

He notices the object hanging from her neck, dipping below her camisole. “I thought you said all the jewellery was gone.”

It takes her a second to realise what he’s talking about, once she does her hand flies to the spot where his ring rests.

She glances down and pulls it out, hooking a finger into it to run it playfully along the long, thin chain. “Sometimes,” she says, “I forget I’m even wearing it.”

His rook swiftly takes one of her pawns and she feels for the clasp.

“No,” he stops her, “the camisole.”

She stares at him for a moment, watching him as he watches her and she can’t help the flushing of her skin. She throws her hair back lightly and lifts the loose silk above her head, chucking it onto the building pile of clothing.

She doesn’t miss when his gaze flickers to the pucker of skin on her shoulder, a scar she wears with pride, proof of her loyalty and her love for her friend. “It’s healing well, don’t you think?”

He can’t help himself and he reaches out with his long arm to brush his fingers lightly against it. “Yes,” he says affectionately. “In a few years it will barely be visible.”

His touch, as soft as it is, burns hot. She waits for him to pull away before she moves another piece. “Socks,” she says once she’s confiscated a bishop, “or belt. Your choice. Either way, I’m catching up.”

His lips twist into a smirk as he peels off the thin grey wool from each foot, rolling them quickly into a ball and tossing them away. As he does his eyes sweep the board for a piece, any piece, that he can capture in one move; all attempts at real strategy are now formally out the window. He spots a pawn and takes it without hesitation. “You’re practically naked. You can concede at any time.” He looks up, innocent, as if he is trying to be kind, offering the option as any good gentleman would. “There’s no dishonour in protecting your modesty.” His smile is not outwardly mocking, it appears perfectly genuine.

It’s infuriating.

Gaby’s mouth pinches as she reaches into her bra and pulls out a thin wad of cash. “Ha,” she says in mock surprise, “look at that.”

“That does not count as clothing.”

“I was wearing it, wasn’t I?”

She has a point, and it’s not like he’s in a rush. “It’s only a matter of time.”

She peers down at the board. She tries not to spend too long doing so since it’ll encourage him to do the same; if he’s _really_ looking - and if she’s wrong about what she thinks she sees - then her big plan has a far smaller chance of working. But she might have struck it lucky with his last move. She was hoping to reach the target within another two or three turns - and even then it was a long shot, what with only a ring and her underwear remaining - but it seems he’s accelerated his own demise in his desire to get her naked. As she’s scanning she realises she’s running out of time, he’s starting to become curious and he’ll refocus back onto the game in a few more seconds. If that happens, and if she’s wrong, he’ll rebuild his defence and she’ll lose the only chance she has at winning.

It’s worth the risk, she decides, her brown eyes flitting from piece to piece, calculating, searching, because it looks like, maybe, _just maybe,_ she’s done it. She keeps checking until she’s sure she’s right.

Once she is, she looks up, triumphant. “Time’s up,” she says and moves her knight into position. “Checkmate.”

“What!” He drops his gaze to the board as he hurriedly searches for confirmation. When he sees it his eyes widen. “Impossible!” he says and begins checking again.

She picks up her drink and sips. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“Sorry,” he says distractedly, “but I don’t...” He starts mumbling in Russian, moving his fingers over the pieces like he’s replaying the moves over in his head. After a few moments he practically tosses himself back into the couch. “Checkmate,” he says in disbelief.

“Yes,” she says, “I mentioned that already.”

She’s pleased with herself, there’s no hiding it. His ego takes a bruising at his having lost, but the insecurity passes in less than a second and he’s left feeling nothing but utter pride and complete respect for the woman he’s in love with. She beat him at his own game and it’s the sexiest thing she’s done all night. He leans forward again and pushes his king over. “Well played, Chop Shop.” He reaches across to shake her hand.

When she takes it, however, he lifts it to his lips and kisses her gently along her knuckles. “That was magnificent.” Her heart begins to beat so loudly she almost doesn’t hear the rest of what he says. “-your prize.”

“Hmm?” He’s no longer touching her, she realises.

“That was the deal, wasn’t it? Winner gets to choose one possession from the loser, from anything they own.”

Clearing her throat she looks away, desperate to settle her gaze on something, anything, that isn’t his smile or the softness of his eyes. “How about this?” She picks up the discarded clothing and tries it on.

“My shirt?”

“It’s a little big but if I’m creative enough, I could turn it into a dress.” She pinches the waist, imagining what it would look like with a belt.

“And what would I wear with my chequered trousers? The ones you had made for me in Paris last year?”

She tilts her head with a smile. He has a point. “Good question. Maybe I should choose something else.” She observes the items within her field of vision and finds that she is entirely unsatisfied with her prospects, his apartment is nice - she’s always thought Illya had good taste - but they’re just things he happens to own. They have no real link to him, and thus are of no value to her. Her gaze settles back onto the man in question. There’s really only one things that she really wants, but she can’t ask for so much. _Still_ , she thinks as she searches his face, perhaps there is something she can claim. “This,” she says, approaching carefully. “How did you get it?” Her fingers delicately trace the scar at his temple.

He sighs at her proximity, at the softness of her voice and the satisfaction of her touch. “I was new kid at a specialist KGB training orphanage,” he says. “Tall, but skinny. Former rich boy with parents who shamed their country. How do you think?”

“It’s mine now.”

“What?”

“I won the game, I get to claim something from you. I want this.”

He pulls her closer, giving her no choice but to sit on his lap, embracing his hips with her thighs. Her entire front presses against his torso and it allows her a close up view of her prize.

“It’s yours,” he whispers into the neck that’s been tantalising him all evening. “My gift to you,” he breathes.

She shakes her head. “I already won it, fair and square. If you want to give me a gift, it’ll have to be something more.”

He pulls away and looks at her then. Blues eyes soft and as vulnerable as hers. She’s unsure at first, of what he’s going to do, and for a moment she’s frightened she’s killed the mood somehow. But then he picks up her hand, kisses it softly and places it gently onto his bare chest, above his heart. “Then how about this?” he suggests.

She can feel it beating under her fingers, his pulse racing, and she realises suddenly he’s as frightened as she is. “That’ll do,” she whispers. Her head is screaming at her, but her blood's pounding loud enough to drown it out. She shouldn’t, she knows it’s a mistake but he’s so beautiful and good and kind and he makes her a better person for it.

She leans in.

The doorbell rings and jolts them both out of their rêverie.

* * *

 

“Hello, Solo.” Gaby opens the door wide, both to let Illya see his guest, and to invite him in.

Napoleon’s leaning against the outer frame and she can’t deny that he’s a hell of a sight. His hair’s in perfect order, save for a few dark curls which have fallen over his forehead. There’s an air of the devil about him, tonight. He’s forgone a tie and jacket in favour of a red sweater and a white collared shirt, which he’s pushed up to his elbows. In one arm he’s carrying his coat and a large, brown paper bag. He rakes his eyes over Gaby, starting with her bare feet and slowly moving up, before his gaze cuts to a topless Illya. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Gaby says as she places her head delicately against the open door. “We’ve just finished a game of strip chess.”

“Ah,” says Napoleon, “that explains your lack of clothing. I take it Peril won and he gave you his shirt out of gentlemanly virtue?”

“Oh no,” Gaby smiles. “I swindled it out of him. You’d have been proud.”

He grins. “I am.”

“She beat me soundly,” Illya says, unwilling to let her achievement go uncredited. “Outstrategised me at every turn.”

“My, my, my, Peril,” Solo says, “I never took you for a masochist.”

“Then you don’t know him very well.” Gaby turns her head to gaze over at Illya and they share a look that’s so tender, Solo’s tempted to look away. He clears this throat loudly, reverting attention back to himself. “So what brings you here?” she asks. “I thought you were spending the holiday at your sister’s in New Jersey.”

Napoleon’s mouth presses into a line. He’d never told anyone where his family lived. “Abusing your access to the Personnel files again, I see.”

She shrugs it off with a lift of a single shoulder.

“My parents are elderly, my nephew’s very young and my sister and her husband are exhausted,” he explains. “The whole Christmas affair ended at ten and I thought… well, I’d planned to spend a night on the town, but then I remembered I never gave my teammates their gifts.” He lifts the vodka out of the bag and then pulls out a thin bottle of bourbon from his back pocket. “Merry Christmas, friends.”

“Looks like you were already on your ‘night on the town’ but you were not enjoying it, and we’re the leftover option,” Illya remarks.

Solo doesn’t deny it. “Pendantics,” he says. “I’m here, aren’t I? And with presents, which is more than I can say for the two of you, having your own little Christmas do without me.”

“We’re very sorry,” Gaby says, kissing his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Solo.” She takes both of his wrists and leads him inside.

* * *

“So,” Gaby says, “my question for you is, what’s your earliest memory?”

Solo narrows his eyes as he tries to remember. “My parents taking me home from church one summer Sunday - I was probably no more than three or four years old - and buying me an orange popsicle.”

“That’s very sweet.”

“Both literally and figuratively,” Solo quips. “What about you, Peril?”

“My mother’s humming as she put me down for a nap.” He thought about it for a moment. “I think I must have been very young.”

“I used to have a lot of memories of my father,” Gaby admits, “but they seem to have faded away.” She looks at Solo quickly, regretting the turn the conversation’s taking. “Let me ask another question.”

“The deal’s once a month,” he says, refusing. “You know the rules.”

“But it’s Christmas, the season of goodwill and generosity.”

He’s reluctant to acquiesce but he doesn’t want to disappoint her either. “ _One_ more, and it’s a one-off. No bending the rules after this.”

“Least favourite place?” she asks before he can change his mind.

Napoleon doesn’t even hesitate. “Minnesota.”

“Where’s that?”

“A state up north in the US.”

“And what were doing there?”

“CIA office,” Illya answers for him. “When Cowboy botched his last theft and was caught-”

Napoleon huffs, interrupting. “I did not _botch_ the job.”

“Then how do you explain your being caught?”

Solo’s mouth tightens. “I was… unlucky,” he says eventually.

Illya’s two drinks in, and up until a few moments ago Gaby was sitting on his knee: he’s in a good mood so he lets Solo have that one. “When his luck ran out-”

“Thank you.”

“-he was taken by CIA to their office in Minneapolis. It is where they debrief all Americans who have done business in states affiliated with Soviet Union. Isn’t that right, Cowboy?”

Napoleon tilts his head in acknowledgement, that trademark sardonic smile twisting at his lips whenever he refers to his previous employers. “Why sends spies over to hostile Russia when you can ask your friendly American businessman for details instead?”

“KGB has similar facilities,” Illya admits. “I suspect CIA have extensive training outpost there as well, which is why they took you there.”

“Right again, Peril.”

“Was it just the training that makes you hate the place?” Gaby asks. She suspects she knows the answer but she’s only ever been to New York and California, the rest of North America is a big mystery to her and she’s curious to find out more about her newly adopted homeland.

“Oh it’s beautiful country, there’s no doubt about that. We didn’t spend a lot of time in the city. Training took place amid open lakes, lush forest and a lot of snow - the great American outdoors, as they say. I’d never felt so trapped in all my life.”

“Sounds very much like home,” Kuryakin says.

Napoleon meets his eyes and a silent moment of understand passing between them.

“Lonely?” Gaby asks.

“Extremely.”

“We’ll have to go back there one day. Maybe you’ll be able to enjoy it.”

“Would you ever want to return to Berlin?”

“Never,” she answers vehemently. “But that’s not the same thing.”

“Fair enough. Can we change the subject now?”

“Hold on.” She unscrews the bottle cap and tops up Solo’s glass of half melted ice and whisky, “technically Illya answered my question, which means I get another turn.”

“No.”

She waits until he reaches for the glass she’s poured him before she picks it up and drinks from it herself. “It’s Christmas,” she says.

He sits back, his lips quirking in mild displeasure at her trick. “You’ve used that excuse already.”

“Why can’t I use it twice?”

“That’s another question I’m unwilling to answer.”

“I’ll make it an easy one.”

“Fine.”

“Mmm,” she’s far too tipsy to think of anything pressing she wants to know about him, so she settles for humour instead. “Do you own anything in your wardrobe aside from blue and grey suits?”

“Yes.”

Illya scoffs, both at her mild dig and the implausibility of his answer.

“Well?” she prompts when Napoleon offers no further detail.

He looks at both of his partners, first at Illya, who stares back with amusement and more than a hint of a challenge: he’s daring Napoleon to respond, he’s eager to know, ready to judge, begging for a verbal sparring. He’ll have to contend with something a little different. There’s a glint in Solo’s sharp eyes when his gaze drifts to Gaby’s lips and the amber liquid touching them.

He times it perfectly.

A movement, gracefully fluid, quick as a cat’s. She finds her hand suddenly empty, the glass now in his, not a drop of whisky spilt. “If you want to know, you’ll have to wait until next month, when you can ask another question,” he says as he sips at his reclaimed prize.

Gaby rolls her eyes, muttering about Solo’s lack of fun, and grabs the bottle when she gets a brainwave. “I think we should head out to a disco. There must be something open. It’s New York, after all.”

He lights up at the idea. “Sounds like a marvellous plan.”

“I thought the entire reason you came by was because nowhere else was any fun,” Illya argues.

“Not the _entire_ reason,” Solo says.

“It’s too late for me tonight, and I don’t really dance.”

Gaby huffs. “But we got you presents, Illya-”

“Which you both drank.”

-“and yet we’ve received nothing in return,” she continues. “Let’s go out. It’d be a perfect gift.”

“You’re in my apartment. My company is gift enough. Also,” he says, as if suddenly remembering, “I bought you both those afghans in Kabul.”

“That was three weeks ago and it was only because Gaby and I had both run out of cash,” Napoleon argues, “it doesn’t count. Plus that was for my mother. Did you _want_ me to steal it?”

“You have answer for everything.”

“Of course I do.”

Illya shakes his head, amused.

“Well, just because Peril’s an old man with two left feet doesn’t mean we have to miss out.” Solo heads to the radio and switches stations until he finds something which is not a Christmas jingle.

“... _and_ _for those still awake, I give you a break from all that Christmas cheer to play Wilson Pickett’s aptly named ‘Midnight Hour’._ ”

Satisfied with his selection, he extends his hand out to Gaby. “Fraulein?” he asks with a rare, open smile.

“Gladly,” she laughs and spins herself into his arms.

Illya watches from his seat on the couch for a while, revelling in the warm glow of good whiskey spreading pleasantly throughout his body, and in the permeable joy of his friends, until he finds eventually that he can’t resist the impulse anymore and he gets up to dance with them.  



End file.
